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Copyrighted by Geo.MuNR 0 .i 89 i - by Subscription fi/.oo Per Annum 

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CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 






































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CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE 


A TALE OF ENGLISH SOCIETY. 


BY 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT. 

*». 


32 


* 


NEW YORK. 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
17 to 27 Vandewater Street- 



i f A V ,4 t 

' a 




Entered according to Act of Coiigress, in the year 18T9, by 
GEORGE MUNRO, 

in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. 


Claire's Love-Life, —“Laurel Series,” 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE, 


CHAPTER 1. 

GABRIEL AND PAULINE. 

The warm glow of the April sunshine was steeping the. gray 
old forest of Picardy in yellow light. Already the soft spring 
green had mantled every bough and spray, although in an 
English glen the shy leaves would scarcely, as yet, be unfolded 
from their wintery sheath. Already the ground was purpled 
with sweet violets and sprinkled over with wild hyacinths and 
scarlet columbine. Overhead the birds were making a 
melodious clamor, and, a few feet away, gurgled a crystal- 
clear brook, turning and winding amid the roots of hoary 
oaks and beeches, whose boughs made a green arch overhead. 
Far away, on a slight eminence to the north, the stained-brick 
towers of the Chateau de Cherbouret were just visible through 
the mantling woods, and altogether it was one of the sweetest 
and most picturesque of French landscapes upon which this 
April sunshine fell with such soft and lambent sweetness. 

But Claire Colonsay, who sat reading on the short grass 
under a huge old beech, with her blue-ribboned hat lying be- 
side her, and a bunch of faded violets in one hand, was no 
patrician French demoiselle, but a dark-eyed, rose-cheeked 
English girl of nineteen, with auburn-red hair braided about 
her small, shapely head, and level eyebrows, which were, per- 
haps, a thought too heavy and decided for her face. Her 
dress, of dark-blue serge, was of the plainest and cheapest 
material, but it fitted her as if Worth himself had cut it; a 
narrow collar of white linen encircled her round, milk-white 
throat, and was fastened with a bow of black ribbon, and a 
black leather belt was clasped with an old-fashioned cut-steel 
buckle around her slender waist. Ho servant could have been 
more plainly dressed, and yet no one in the possession of their 
ordinary senses would ever have taken Claire Colonsay for 
anything but the lady that she was. 


6 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


Page after page she turned, intent upon the exciting narra- 
tive — one of Victor Hugo’s romances — which she was reading, 
and all unheeding the sunshine that braided itself into the 
coronals of her lovely red -gold hair, the rustle of the scented 
leaves overhead, and the warble of the birds that darted in 
and out of the green wilderness, as fearlessly as if the young 
girl with the great wine-brown eyes and coral lips were one of 
themselves, until the sharp, complaining bark of a dog at her 
side, and the cold touch of a moist nose, unceremoniously dis- 
placing the violets in her hand, scattered her airy visions to 
the winds, and roused her to a sense of what was going on 
around her. 

“ What is it. Bijou? Poor Bijou!” she said, caressing the 
beautiful little pearl-colored Italian greyhound who had thus 
thrust himself on her notice. But still the dog kept up his 
piteous whine, running a few paces, and then looking back at 
her, with violently vibrating tail, as if he would thus implore 
her to follow him. 

Miss Colonsay started to her feet, and looked around her. 

“ Pauline!” she called out in a clear, high voice. “ Ga- 
briel! where are you?” 

There was no answer; but through the trees beyond she 
could just discern the figure of a boy of thirteen or fourteen 
stretched on the banks of the little stream, flinging pebbles 
lazily into its current. 

Hurrying through the woods, she came to his side, the dog 
still barking at her heels. 

“ Gabriel,” said she, speaking in the purest and softest 
French, “ where is Pauline?” 

The boy looked up. He was a long-limbed, sullen-looking 
fellow, with a bilious complexion, a retreating chin, and small 
black eyes, placed too near together in his head. 

“ Isn’t she with you. Mademoiselle Claire?” said he. 

“No.” 

“ Find her, then,” said Gabriel de Cherbouret; “7 am not 
Pauline’s governess.” 

Miss Colonsay grasped the boy’s shoulder as if her slim, 
white fingers were a vise. 

“ Where is she, Gabriel?” uttered she, peremptorily. 

“ How should 1 know? Let go my shoulder, mademoiselle; 
you hurt mp,” snarled the boy. “It’s always ‘Pauline! 
Pauline.” ‘ Where is Pauline?’ 1 might pitch headlong into 
the lake half a dozen times over, and nobody would ever 
trouble themselves to say, ‘ Where is Gabriel V ” 

“ Into the lake! Oh, Gabriel!” cried Miss Colonsay, her 


claire’s love-life. 


9 

cheeks suddenly paling as she heard his words; “ it can’t be 
possible that you have let your lame sister fall into that black, 
bottomless lake? 1 know you don’t love her; I know you 
have no more heart than a stone, Gabriel de Cherbouret; but 
1 do not believe that even you could be so wicked and cruel as 
that!” 

Gabriel shrugged his shoulders. 

“You are complimentary. Mademoiselle Colonsay,” said 
he. “ So was Pauline last night. I told you both I’d be re- 
venged. And I am !” 

“Gabriel!” said Miss Colonsay, “what do you mean? 
Tell me, where is Pauline?” 

“ Find out for yourself,” said the boy, wrenching himself 
suddenly out of her grasp, and breaking into an eldritch laugh 
as he sped away into the woods. 

Miss Colonsay looked after him with a sort of mute, help- 
less terror; and still the little greyhound kept barking 
shrilly and dragging at the skirt of her dress. 

“ Poor fellow, he would speak if he could,” thought she. 
“ Go on, Bijou,” she added, aloud; “ and I will follow.” 

Away darted the little creature, with Miss Colonsay hurry- 
ing after; and presently he disappeared into a gloomy path 
where yews and cedars were interlaced overhead and a damp, 
green mold had sprung up on the ground below in unwhole- 
some streaks. 

“ He is going to the mausoleum,” thought Claire. “ Oh! 
surely Gabriel never can have — ” 

For a second she paused, her heart seeming to come to a 
dead stand-still within her breast, and then she flew along 
faster than ever, down the deep and shaded path, to a moss- 
enameled vault, supported on columns, which was built into 
a side-hill, and bore on its front the sculptured arms of the 
ancient family of He Cherbouret — the mausoleum, in which 
were deposited, in hermetically sealed cells, the remains of the 
dwellers of the chateau, as one by one they laid down the bur- 
den of life and entered the shadows of the world beyond. 

She tried the rusted iron door, but in vain; it was locked. 
And then, standing on tiptoe, she endeavored to peep into 
the barred window above, through which the warm and sunny 
air streamed into the dismal abode of death and decay. 

“ Pauline,” she called aloud, “ Pauline, ma petite /” 

But only the echo of her own voice returned to her, with a 
hollow ring, as if some mocking ghost were gibing at her 
breathless terror, and a damp gust of air striking her fore- 
head like a cold hand, made her recoil with a shudder. 


8 


claire's love-life. 


In the same instant, however, she caught a glimpse of the 
flatter of something white below. 

“ Pauline!" she shrieked, loader than ever. “ Oh, Pau- 
line, my darling! speak to me." 

Still there was silence, deep and terrible as that of the grave. 

Claire Colonsay comprehended the situation at last. Ga- 
briel de Cherbouret, in a freak of malicious spite, had some- 
how contrived to lure his little sister into this horrible place, 
and then had locked her in. 

As she turned, with clasped "hands and v compressed lips, to 
consider what she had best do in this emergency, her foot 
struck against something on the brick-paved path that return- 
ed a hollow clink— the key of the mausoleum! — and with a cry 
of joy she unlocked the rust-scaled door. As it creaked dis- 
mally on its seldom- used hinges, little Bijou sprung in before 
her, and was presently licking the white, senseless face of a 
child of nine, who lay prostrate on the stone floor between the 
grisly marble shelves, where withered wreaths and crosses of 
immortelles rustled sepuichrally against the walls. 

In another instant Claire Colonsay had lifted little Pauline 
de Cherbouret in her arms and borne her out into the fresh 
air and sunshine. For a few minutes she lay there, looking 
like death itself, and then, as Claire chafed her hands and 
poured eau-de-Cologne upon her face from a scent-flask which 
she carried in her pocket, the child opened her eyes, and be- 
gan faintly to gasp for breath. 

“ Oh, mademoiselle," she cried, clinging spasmodically to 
Claire’s arm, “ was it a dream? or was I really locked up 
there with all those dead people and moldering skeletons?" 

And then, as a clearer consciousness returned to her, she 
began to sob hysterically on her young governess’s breast. 

“ Little Pauline, darling Pauline, don’t weep so piteously," 
soothed Miss Colonsay, caressing the child’s pale forehead and 
golden hair. “ Tell me all about it." 

“ It was Gabriel," said the child with a shudder. “ He 
coaxed me in there; he had the key in his pocket, and he told 
me there was a beautiful bird shut in among the cells. And 
he threatened to kill it, and when I came in to save its life, 
there was no bird there; and Gabriel ran out and locked the 
door, and shouted to me that he was going to leave me to 
starve to death there! Oh, mademoiselle! and then there 
came a dizziness in my head, and a black cloud across my eyes 
and I never knew anything more until I seemed to wake up 
out of a horrible dream, and found myself here in the sun- 


claire's love-liee. 


9 


shine, with the sweet Cologne dripping on my forehead and 
your dear eyes shining over me." 

Little Pauline de Cherbouret was a child of shadow-like 
and exquisite loveliness, with long, luxuriant hair of the palest 
gold, luminous blue eyes, and a complexion as white as wax. 
Something of the extreme delicacy of her appearance was ac- 
counted for by a slight but very perceptible curvature of the 
spine, which was visible under the folds of her white muslin 
frock, and the little rose-wood crutch which lay on the gar- 
den path, and her whole aspect was that of an invalid. 

“ Pauline," said Miss Colonsay, lookiug down at the pale 
and shuddering child, “ can you walk as far as the chateau 
with the aid of my arm, or shall I go up and send down 
Jacques, with the garden-chair?" 

“ Oh, mademoiselle, don't leave me!" gasped Pauline, 
looking around her with a frightened glance. “I dare say I 
can walk if you will help me; and, if I were left alone again, 
Gabriel might — " 

Miss Colonsay set her teeth tightly together. "I hardly 
think Gabriel will venture to molest you again, Pauline," 
said she. “ However, we will walk slowly, and you shall lean 
on my arm, and, after all, it is not far to the chateau." 

And, clinging closely together, the tall English girl and the 
pallid little scion of French aristocracy made their way slowly 
along the broad avenue, with the rustling beech-leaves over- 
head, and the violetss^pangling all their path below. 

They had not far to walk before the gray walls of the Cha- 
teau de Cherbouret rose up before them, with its stiff, colon- 
naded entrance, its rows of high, narrow casements, and its 
circle of orange-trees, aloes, and blossoming oleanders, set at 
formal intervals around the graveled carriage-drive — and 
Claire entered the hall, where the inlaid wooden floor was cov- 
ered with dimly tinted Turkish rugs, and battered pieces of 
armor hung on the walls. There had been a wood-fire in an 
immense fire-place at the further end, but the logs had 
smoldered away into drifts of feathery ashes, and the air felt 
chili and cold in contrast to the spring sunshine without. 

Miss Colonsay tapped at a door at the left, in front of which 
hung draperies of faded red tapestry. An old woman in a 
white cap answered the summons, after a little delay. 

“ Is Madame la Marquise within?" Claire demanded. 

Yes, Mme. la Marquise was within. What did the English 
mademoiselle want? 

“ To speak with her at once." 

The old woman hesitated. Mme. la Marquise was drink- 


10 


CLAIRE’S LO YE- LIFE. 


ing chocolate, and reading a book of devotions; but she would 
ask if she could receive the English mademoiselle. And, 
after a prolonged whispering, the door was opened again, and 
a cold, high-pitched voice from within called out: 

“ Entrez !” 

Claire walked in, still with Pauline on her arm, and found 
herself in the presence of the widowed mistress of the Chateau 
de Cherbouret and all its appurtenances. 

Mrne. de Cherbouret had been a beauty once, but she was 
now only a high-nosed individual, with thin flaxen hair, an 
artificial complexion, and watery blue eyes. She sat on a low 
divan, her slippered feet supported on an embroidered satin 
cushion, and a faded India shawl wrapped around her shoul- 
ders, as if the heat from the handful of fire that glimmered in 
the porcelain stove was quite insufficient to stimulate her slug- 
gish blood. The room was like its occupant — it had been very 
splendid once, with gilding, and white enamel, and yellow 
satin furniture, all of which were now faded and worn out, 
and years behind the fashion; for the lineage of the De Cher- 
bourets was considerably longer than their purse, ail'd the 
economy of the chateau had degenerated into positive avarice. 

“ It is very strange. Mademoiselle Colonsay,” whined Mme. 
la Marquise, leaning back on her divan, with the transparent 
cup and saucer in her hand, and her light-blue eyes fixed 
coldly on the intruder, “ that 1 must be disturbed at this hour 
of the day. When I engaged a governess, 1 naturally expect- 
ed to be released from all care and anxiety pertaining to my 
children, and — ” 

“ If you will allow me to explain this intrusion, madame,” 
cal ml v interposed Claire, “ 1 think you will hardly blame me 
for it.” 

And quietly, but explicitly, she explained the whole cir- 
cumstance just as it had occurred. 

But if Miss Colonsay had expected that Mme. de Cherbouret 
would have burst into exclamations of anger and indignation 
at the inexcusable conduct of her son, she was quite mistaken. 

“ Pauline!” said Mme. la Marquise, setting down the trans- 
parent chocolate-cup, and transfixing the little girl with a stern 
gaze, “I’m surprised at you for attacffing so much impor- 
tance to a mere joke on the part of yourbrother. Gabriel is a 
boy— and boys are always full of spirits. If the affection of a 
sister can not lead you to make due allowance for his exuber- 
ance of animation, 1 beg that you will endeavor to do so for 
viy sake!” ^ 

Pauline visibly shrunk from her mother’s cold, incisive 


CtAiliE*S LOYE-LIFE]. 11 

tones. MisS Colonsay colored high with indignation at the 
undeserved rebuke. 

“ Madame de Cherbouret,” said she, speaking quickly, and 
with the sensation of a choking lump in her throat, “ this is 
a joke which might have cost your daughter her reason — a 
joke which is in itself almost a crime! Do 1 not tell you that 
I found her fainting on the cold stone floor of the mauso- 
leum?^ 

“ I am surprised that Pauline has no more strength of 
mind,” said Mme. && Cherbouret, sourly. “Some more 
chocolate, Babette. I am quite sure that dear Gabriel meant 
no harm. And now. Mademoiselle Colonsay, if you have 
nothing more to say — ” 

And thus Mme. la Marquise dismissed the complaint, with 
a nod and a shrug of the shoulders, which was meant to inti- 
mate that she bad been very unnecessarily annoyed. — ' 

Claire led poor little Pauline out of the room, and sat down 
on a moth-eaten velvet sofa near the extinct fire in the vesti- 
bule. Pauline looked wistfully into her face. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said she, timidly, “ it is not that mamma 
means to be unkind. It is only that Gabriel is a boy — and 
boys are always of more importance than girls, you know.” 

Claire took the pallid, shivering child to her arms, and 
burst into tears. 

“ My poor little lamb!” she murmured. And in an instant 
the barrier of Pauline’s childish dignity gave way, and she too 
began to sob and cry pitifully, until her blue eyes looked like 
forget-me-nots" drenched in rain. 

“ Mamma never loved me, mademoiselle,” she faltered be- 
tween her tears. “ She never kisses me; she never smiles on 
me as she does on Gabriel! I don’t believe she would be sorry 
if I were to die! Oh, mademoiselle, the good cure says that 
Christ loves little children. I think I would be happier with 
Him if only it were not so painful to die! Tell me; mademoi- 
selle, do you think it would be much worse than those bad 
turns I have at night, when you bathe my forehead in sal 
volatile, and put the bottles of hot water to my feet? I some- 
times think that they must be worse than death; because, 
when papa died, Babette says he only just turned around and 
smiled, and seemed to go to sleep. If I could die like that, 
mademoiselle — ” 

And Claire Colonsay, soothing the unloved child with soft 
caresses and whispered words of affectionate import, wondered 
how she could ever have fancied herself desolate and solitary 
in the world. For had she not youth and health, and the 


Claire's loye-liee. 


12 

priceless heritage of beauty? While poor little Pauline was 
like a frost-nipped blossom, ready to drift from the tree at the 
first harsh wind. 

And, half an hour afterward, when Pauline had fallen asleep 
on the sofa, with her long golden lashes resting on her white 
cheek, Claire Colonsay sat watching her slumbering face with 
grave thoughtfulness. 

“ Better, ah! far better to be alone in the world, as I am,” 
she told herself, “ than to have such a home as this !” 


CHAPTER 11. 

A BOX OX THE EAR. 

Just six months had elapsed since Claire Colonsay had ac- 
cepted the situation of governess at the Chateau de Cher- 
bouret — a position to which she had been recommended by 
Mis. Hobson, her former school-mistress at Hobson Hall, in 
Hertfordshire, a mature matron, whose favorable mention 
carried with it great influence. Miss Colonsay had not been 
especially desirous of earning her livelihood by teaching, but 
it was imperatively necessary that she should earn it in some 
way, and this seemed to be the only avenue of self-support 
which was open to her. Moreover, there was something 
seductive in the name of “ Madame la Marquise de Cher- 
bouret,” and the sound of the word “ chateau 99 seemed to 
suggest wealth, luxury, and fashion. The salary, to be sure, 
.was small; but then the society! And what was to prevent 
her, Claire Colonsay, from making a brilliant marriage in 
such an atmosphere as this? She had read and heard of gov- 
ernesses doing such things before. 

Alas! the waking from this day-dream was dispiriting in the 
extreme. The “ society ” at the Chateau de Cheibouret con- 
sisted of old Babette, the two children, and M. le Cure once a 
week, with rats skurrying through the deserted rooms at 
night, and owls hooting in the woods by day. Mme. la Mar- 
quise herself saw scarcely any company. She was sedulously 
nursing her son’s estate until such time as he should come of 
age, thereby doing her best to repair the damages wrought by 
the last marquis, who had possessed a fatal penchant for gam- 
bling. And, as the monotonous days crept by, poor Claire 
avowed to herself that life on such terms as this w r as scarcely 
worth the having. 

But sh8 was at least earning a living, and that was some- 
thing. She was perfecting herself in her French, moreover, 


claike's love-life. 


13 


and she had grown fond of little pale Panline, who was sys- 
tematically neglected by every one else in favor of Gabriel, the 
heir-apparent of the name and fortunes of De Cherbouret. 
Claire Colonsay had a certain amount of English common 
sense also, and- she did not at present see that she could do 
better than to remain at the mildewed old chateau and endure 
the monotony of life within its ancient walls as best she might. 

Her own room was desolate and scantily furnished in the 
extremest degree—a little iron bedstead, a few prints pinned 
on the wall, a chair, and a wash-stand covered with badly 
matched china, constituting its sole decorations, while its 
view, comprising the deserted stable-yard and kitchen offices, 
was anything but picturesque. 

“ A castle — a chateau !”' Claire would repeat to herself with 
the utmost disdain. “ Why, there is not a grocer or farmer 
in all England but lives more comfortably than this.” 

And thus Miss Colonsay learned her first lesson of scorn 
toward the “ blue-blooded ” aristocracy of fair France. 

Claire Colonsay herself could boast no ancient lineage. Her j 
father, in spite of his euphonious appellation, had been a 
petty London tradesman; her mother, now married for the 
second time, was eking out her narrow means by letting fur- 
nished lodgings; and she herself would probably have been a 
mere household drudge at this time, had it not been for the 
whim of one Miss Claire Higgins, her godmother and name- 
sake. 

“ Claire shall have an education like a lady,” said Miss 
Higgins, who had saved up a snug little sum in the dress- 
making and millinery business. “ I've no near relations to in- 
herit my money, and Eve took a notion to spend it on Claire.” 

And so the girl was sent to mingle with the daughters of 
the landed gentry at a fashionable boarding-school in Hert- 
fordshire, the mistress of which Miss Higgins had supplied 
with bonnets and dress-caps for years. Education at Hobson 
Hall was an expensive affair; and when at last Miss Higgins 
was carried off unexpectedly by a fit of apoplexy, her little 
fortune was all spent, and nothing remained for her protegee 
but to take the first situation that offered itself, or return to 
her mother in the London lodging-house. She had very nat- 
urally preferred the former alternative; and here she was in 
charge of the two youthful scions of the Chateau de Cher- 
bouret. 

So much for the past; and now for the present. 

It was the afternoon of the same day whose adventures we 
have chronicled, and Claire, her lessons over and her time 


14 


CLAIRE'S LOVE-LIFE. 


temporarily at her own disposal, slowly descended the dark, 
waxed stairs, whose carved balustrades were so perilously in- 
secure, to a moldering old room, called by courtesy “ the pict- 
ure-gallery/' because of a few ancient and time-stained por- 
traits in frames of tarnished gold, which hung'on the mildewed 
walls. She had taken a fancy to one in particular, a “ Court- 
ier of the Sixteenth Century/' with dark eyes, and sad, 
regular features, and was intent on copying it as well as she 
could in water colors. 

“ For if I am to be a governess always," said Claire Co- 
lonsay to herself with a little impatient shrug of her shoulders, 
“ I may as well try and improve myself in what few wretched 
accomplishments I possess, so as to make myself as market- 
able a commodity as possible." 

From which remark it may be plainly inferred that the iron 
of discontent was already entering into the soul of the young 
governess. 

She sighed a weary, impatient sigh, as she drew the table 
in front of the high, Gothic window, whose panes were in- 
crusted with the dirt and dust of at least a year. For this was 
one of the uninhabited portions of the chateau, and old Fan- 
chon, the housekeeper, was troubled with no unnecessary scru- 
ples of neatness. Although the air was soft and spring-like 
out-of-doors, there was a sepulchral chill in the air of the un- 
used room, which made Claire shiver as she sat down in front 
of the sad-eyed cavalier and took out her portfolio. 

“Iam not getting the expression at all," said she to her- 
self, looking down earnestly at the sheet of Bristol-board on 
which she had sketched the outlines. “ Oh, dear! why was 1 
not born a genius? Yes, come in." 

For a soft tap had sounded on the door, and little lame 
Pauline had limped into the room with a deprecating counte- 
nance. 

“ Do I disturb you. Mademoiselle Claire?" said she, wist- 
fully. “ May I stay here? It's so lonesome down-stairs, and 
I almost know Gabriel is hiding at the corner, to jump out at 
me if I go to old Fanchon, because the hall is dark, and Ga- 
briel knows I am afraid." 

Claire pulled out a spindle-legged old sofa, covered with 
tarnished brocade, and hung with brass ornaments which stood 
in the angle of the fire-place, and threw her shawl over it for 
little Pauline's more comfortable reception. 

“ Lie down there, dear," said she. “ No, you will not dis- 
turb me at all; in truth, I shall be glad to have your com- 
panionship in this dreary place while 1 am copying your grand- 


CLAIRE'S LOVE-LIFE. 


15 


father or your great-uncle,. or whatever relation this gentleman 
with the big eyes may be to you." 

Pauline shuddered. 

44 1 am afraid of him, mademoiselle," said she in a low 

tone. 

“ Afraid?" 

44 Afraid of all of them, Mademoiselle Claire," explained 
the child. “Their eyes seem to follow me around — around 
all the time. Even when my eyes are shut tight 1 can feel 
them looking at me. And," lowering her voice to a whisper, 
“ Gabriel says they come down out of their frames at night 
and stalk all over the rooms by moonlight." 

“That is only Gabriel's silly nonsense, child," said Miss 
Colonsay. 

“ Put this Monsieur Alphonse de Cherbouret," with a mo- 
tion of her head toward the sad-eyed cavalier whose likeness 
Claire was trying so vainly to reproduce, “ was killed in a 
duel. Why do people fight duels. Mademoiselle Claire?" 

44 Because they are fools, I suppose," said Claire, touching, 
the long eyelashes on her drawing, and then looking up to 
study the duplicate features in the portrait, to see how nearly 
she had succeeded in catching the likeness. 

44 And Gabriel says he walks every moonlight night up and 
down the great entrance hall, looking for the drops of blood 
that fell there when they carried him in after he was dead. 
And, mademoiselle," added Pauline, with a scared sidelong 
glance at the portrait, 44 there are drops in the floor, which 
Fanchon has never been able to scour out. I've seen them 
myself." 

44 Pauline, what nonsense you are talking!" said Claire, w r ith 
a laugh. 44 I'd wager any amount that an English house- 
maid, with plenty of soap and sand, would get them out. 
But Fanchon is lazy; and it's a deal easier to be superstitious 
than it is to be clean. Now, Gabriel, is that you?" turning 
brusquely on a new-comer, whose shadow fell across her draw- 
ing. 

Gabriel de Cherbouret nodded, with a disagreeable smile, as 
he sidled into the room. 

44 Aren't you glad to see me, Mademoiselle Colonsay?" 

Claire painted away, as if she did not regard the visitor as 
worthy of a look. 

44 I am not often glad to see you, Gabriel," said she. 
44 Still less after your shameful conduct of to-day." 

44 Who was to suppose Pauline would be such a little coward 
as to go and faint away?" said Gabriel, thrusting his hands 


16 


claiee’s love-life. 


down into his pockets aud drawing his head, turtle-fashion, 
between his shoulders. “ I say, mademoiselle, that sketch of 
yours is no more like the original than it is like me.” 

“ Will you be kind enough to leave the room, Gabriel?” 
said Miss Colonsay. “ Your society here is as undesired as 
your criticisms.” 

“ What should I leave the room for?” demanded Gabriel, 
insolently. “ This is my house, isn’t it? Or it will be, when 
mamma is dead.” 

“You will leave the room because I tell you, Gabriel,” 
said Miss Colonsay, rising from her seat with such a deter- 
mined air that the boy involuntarily retreated a step or two. 

“ You’d better hear me out first, mademoiselle,” said he, 
sulkily. “ I’ve come here on a message from mamma.” 

“ Say it, then, and be gone!” uttered Claire, curtly. 

“ There’s to be company in the grand salon to-night,” said 
Gabriel. “ And mamma wants you to fill the big china vases 
with flowers.” 

Claire bit her lip, recalling to herself that this newly im- 
posed duty was no part of h&r business as governess, but she 
merely said: 

“ Very well. Now take yourself off.” 

“ Wait a bit, mademoiselle,” said Gabriel, his eyes spark- 
ling with malicious glee. “That isn’t all. Mamma says 
you’re to come into the salon after dinner, and sing for the 
gentlemen. ” 

The sudden scarlet flamed into Miss Colonsay’s cheek. 

“ 1 shall not,” said she. “ I came here to educate Madame* 
de Cherbo.uret’s children, not to amuse her chance guests.” 

“ Shall I tell her so?” said Gabriel, dancing about the floor 
in ill-concealed delight at the prospect of a difference of opin- 
ion between Mme. la Marquise and the governess. 

“ You will be good enough to leave the room, and mind 
your own business,” said Claire, crisply. 

“ Will 1, though!” cried Gabriel, nimbly vaulting over the 
table and ensconcing himself in the angle of the wall behind 
Pauline’s sofa. But in the action he contrived to upset the 
claw-legged little table, burying sketch, water-cups, paints 
and all in one general mass of ruin. 

“ Oh, Mademoiselle Claire,” cried out poor little Pauline, 
in terror and despair, “ your picture is ruined!” 

Miss Colonsay gave but one glance at the chaotic wreck, 
and then, advancing upon Gabriel with cheeks crimsoned with 
indignation, she dealt him a box on the ear so sharp and sud- 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 17 

den that it made his head ring and lights dance before his 

eyes. 

4 4 1 say, mademoiselle/’ he howled, ducking down behind 
the sofa, “ you stop that!” 

But the governess’s only answer was another box, given 
with equal will and energy. 

4 4 There!” said she. 44 And I only wish I was a man, and 
had the strength to throw you down-stairs!” 

She looked after him as lie fled out of the room, screaming 
like a great baby, with his head clasped in both hands. Pau- 
line sat upon the sofa, breathless and pale. 

44 Oh, mademoiselle,” said she, 44 poor Gabriel! I am afraid 
you have hurt him.” 

44 1 only wish 1 had hit a little harder,” said Claire, her 
breath still coming thick and fast, as she stooped to pick up 
what was left intact of her brushes and colors. 

44 What will mamma say?” cried Pauline, beginning to cry. 

44 If she has any common sense, she will say that I served 
him right,” said Claire; 44 if she hasn’t, I do not care what 
she says. Look, Pauline, the sketch is hopelessly saturated 
with water — and so long as* I have worked at it, too.” 

44 But, Mademoiselle Claire,” pleaded the child, 44 1 don’t 
think Gabriel meant to do it.” 

44 Little Pauline, you are always trying to excuse people,” 
said Miss Colonsay, stroking the little girl’s golden hair. 
44 In this world we must sometimes meet people exactly as they 
are, and render them back their own with interest. Gabriel 
has received a much-needed lesson to-day, and I only hope 
he will remember it.” 

But at this moment the flat face and faded cap-strings of 
old Babette appeared at the door, and Pauline, who had 
learned to be an adept in physiognomy, at once perceived 
from the expression of her face that there was trouble brewing. 

“Madame la Marquise’s compliments to Mademoiselle 
Colonsay,” said Babette, 44 and she desires her to attend her 
at once, in the boudoir.” 

“ Tell her I will be with her immediately,” said Claire; and 
pausing only to wipe the paint-stains from her hands, she 
walked with the mien of a young princess into the presence of 
Mme. la Marquise de Cherbouret. 

That faded individual was at last roused into something like 
life and animation. Her dim blue eyes glittered,. a round red 
spot glowed on either cheek-bone, and she actually sat in 
aii upright position on her divan, while just back of her stood 
Master Gabriel himself, grimacing fearfully at his governess. 


18 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


“Mademoiselle Colonsay,” uttered Mme. do Cherbouret, 
in the shrill accents of repressed anger, “ am I to believe the 
evidence of my own senses?” 

“As to what, madame?” asked Claire, quietly. 

“ Am I to believe that you have actually struck — yes, struck 
my son Gabriel?” said Mme. la Marquise, the red spot grow- 
ing redder still. “ You — a hired dependent in this chateau — 
a low-born English teacher!” 

“ I boxed his ears, inadame,” said Claire, her own spirited 
blood* beginning to tingle hotly in her veins, “ and for the 
same offense I should most certainly do it again.” 

Mme. la Marquise fell back among her sofa-pillows as if 
Claire’s answer had been a blow. 

“ It is as Monsieur le Cure prophesied,” she said, despair- 
ingly. “ These demoiselles Anglaise are subversive of every 
moral and religious law. Better let my children grow up with- 
out the correct English accent than to introduce such a fire- 
brand as this into my domestic circle. Alas! how 1 have been 
deceived.” 

“ Is that all that you have to say, madame?” said Claire, 
calmly; and at the sound of her voice Mme. la Marquise 
straightened herself into an erect position once more. 

“ .No, Mademoiselle Colonsav, it is not,” said she. “Of 
course you are prepared to apologize most humbly for your 
conduct, first to my son Gabriel and then to me, and subse- 
quently to pledge yourself never again to forget what is due to 
my son’s rank and your own subordinate position.” 

“ I certainly shall not apologize, Madame de Cherbouret,” 
said Claire with a clear, cold ring in her voice, as she stood 
looking straight into the watery blue eyes of Mme. la Mar- 
quise. 

“ Not apologize!” almost screamed the other. 

“ If there is any apology it must come from Gabriel to 
me,” said Miss Colonsay. “ He has systematically treated 
me as well as his sister in a manner as cowardly as it is ungen- 
tlemanly and insulting; and I shall endure it no longer.” 

“ 1 beg you will say no more. Mademoiselle Colonsay,’ in- 
terposed Mme. de Cherbouret. “ I am not accustomed to 
listen to such language as this, and it agitates my poor nerves 
beyond measure. You are dimissed from my service. Be so 
good as to leave the chateau at once. Babette will pay you 
what wages are due, in the course of half an hour or so. If 
you are expeditious with your packing, you’ll be able to catch 
the seven-o’clock diligence to Amiens.” 

Claire Colonsay inclined her head and walked out of the 


CLAIKE'S LOVE-LIFE# 


19 


presence of Mme. la Marquise as if that lady had just con- 
ferred upon her some signal favor, instead of having dismissed 
her ignominiously from her service. She went up to her own 
room, where the twilight shadows were already beginning to 
make the place gloomier than its original wont, and, lighting 
a miserable oil-lamp, which was all the medium of illumina- 
tion allowed to her, began to pack her few scanty belongings 
into the one small trunk that she possessed. She had scarcely 
completed the task when Babette knocked at the door of her 
room, with a small leather purse in her wrinkled hand. 

4 4 Mademoiselle’s wages,” said she. “And Madame la 
Marquise begs for a receipt in full. ” 

By the fading light in the western window. Miss Oolonsay 
wrote and signed the receipt. As she handed it to Babette, 
the old woman looked wistfully up into her face. 

“ Mademoiselle,” said she, “ if you were to ask my mis- 
tress’s pardon humbly, I think she might possibly relent, even 
now. ” 

“ Did she tell you to say this, Babette?” 

“ But no, mademoiselle; it is only what 1 venture to think 
myself. And there is la 'petite to consider, you know — Made- 
moiselle Pauline.” 

“You are a good soul, Babette,” said Claire, with a smile, 
“ but it is of no use. Madame de Cherbouret would not keep 
me — and I would not stay here, if she would. Will you ask 
Jacques to take my box down to the chateau gates before the 
Amiens diligence comes by?” 

Old Babette courtesied and withdrew. To her, being turned 
out of the Chateau de Cherbouret was no less a calamity than 
an expulsion from the very gates of Paradise itself. She knew 
little of the strong, courageous pulses which throbbed in the 
breast of that young English girl, -as she stood there, alone 
and friendless, in the gloom of that twilight room. Babette 
was old and timorous. Claire Colonsay did not know what 
fear meant. Babette was wedded to custom, and Claire longed 
for change, as only the young and brave canjong. She had 
been a little dismayed at first by the suddenness of her dis- 
missal, but she was glad of it now. She might as well be dead 
and entombed, she told herself, like those sleepers in the gray 
mausoleum at the foot of the evergreen walk, as to be buried 
alive, all her youth, in a place like this. 

As she came past the salon door, in hei* water-proof cloak 
and black straw turban, with the deep-blue plume on the 
side, it opened, and Pauline limped out, her face all swollen 
with crying. 


30 


CLAIRE'S LOVE-LIFE. 


“ Oh, Mademoiselle Claire! Mademoiselle Claire!'' she 
sobbed; “ is it really true? Are you going away?" 

“ I have no choice, Pauline. Your mamma has dismissed 
me," Claire answered, stooping to kiss the pallid little fore- 
head. 

“ But how shall 1 live without you?" wailed the child, 
clinging,- with convulsive sobs and tears, to the young gov- 
erness, to whom she had become so attached. 

“ Pauline, dearest, don't cry," soothed Miss Colonsay. 44 I 
will send you my address when I am settled, and you shall 
write dear little English letters to me by every mail. But 
don't cry now. Would you send me away from the chateau 
with a heart as heavy as lead? Kiss me now, and say good- 
bye, for I shall be late for the diligence if I stand here talking 
any longer." 

With one last kiss she tore herself away from the weeping 
child, and hurried out of the door, down the gloomy path 
which led under drooping beech-boughs to the southern gate 
of the grounds, past which the high-road to the ancient city 
of Amiens wound, like a dusty serpent, under the uncertain 
and glimmering stars. But she was not more than half-way 
there when a shadow disengaged itself from the other shadows 
of the trees and stood directly in her path. For the second, 
she could not repress a low cry of terror — but the next instant 
she recognized the face and figure. 

“ Gabriel!" she exclaimed. 

“ Did I frighten you, mademoiselle?*' said the boy. “ I 
didn't intend to. I — I only wanted to say — " 

“ Say it quickly, then, and let me be gone!" said Claire. 

4 4 1 have no time to lose." 

44 To say that 1 was sorry, mademoiselle," confessed Ga^ 
briel de Cherbouret, awkwardly enough. “I didn't suppose 
that mamma would send you away, Or Pd never have told her. 
But I was in such a towering passion that- 1 didn't think. 
And I'm sorry. Mademoiselle Ciaire—1 am, truly!" 

44 It matters little to me whether you are sorry or not, Ga- 
briel," said Miss Colonsay, who had never liked the boy, and 
could not tolerate him even now that he was sincerely peni- 
tent. 44 Stand aside, and let me pass. I can hear the wheels 
of the diligence now rdmbling over St. Antoine's Bridge." 

And with a quick, elastic step, she vanished into the purple 
dusk, leaving Gabriel standing, alone and chagrined, in the 
middle of the avenue. 

44 I wish I'd held my tongue!" muttered the boy, turning 
on his heel. 44 She was pretty, and she made things lively in 


CtAlRE*S LOVE- LI EE. 


n 


this dead-alive old hole! Pd let her box my ears again, if it 
would only bring her back/’ 


CHAPTER III. 

FROM CALAIS TO DOVER. 

The night journey in the lumbering old diligence was dis- 
mal enough. Fortunately there were only one or two other 
passengers in the interieur , and Claire Colonsay had plenty 
of time to think, as she leaned back against the padded 
leather, with closed eyes and veil drawn closely down over her 
face. The air of the April night was chill, but refreshing. 
The stars shone softly overhead, like tender, pitying eyes, and 
the croaking of frogs and the incessant chirp of spring insects 
filled the silence with melancholy cadences, as Claire tried to 
plan out something like a definite future for herself. 

For, despite the debonair manner in which she had left the 
Chateau de Cherbouret, Claire had not the least idea what to 
do next. 

She did not want to go back to the shabby London street 
where her mother and the children of the second marriage 
were struggling together for a livelihood; not because she 
dreaded to inconvenience them, but because she hated a life 
of drudgery, and secretly despised her relations. For Claire, 
both by nature and by education, was decidedly inclined to be 
selfish. There were good impulses in her heart, but they 
were so overgrown by the weeds of temper, habit, and custom, 
that they seldom had the opportunity to assert themselves. 
Little Pauline de Cherbouret’s helplessness had aroused some 
of these dormant virtues, but it was only for a time. It was 
not Pauline's loneliness that she was thinking of now, but her 
own uncertain prospects. 

Unconsciously her mind went back to the time, only a few 
months ago, when she had traveled over this road en route for 
the chateau, full of high hope and anticipation. 

“ What a fool I was," she said to herself, her delicate lip 
curling scornfully. “ And. how long since it seems!" 

For, naturally enough, when Mrs. Hobson’s mediation had 
secured for her pupil the position of governess at the Chateau 
de Cherbouret, Claire had fondly fancied that her fortune was 
made. The disenchantment from this dream had been her 
first actual realization of the bitterness of life. And here she 
was rumbling along in a moldy-smelling old diligence, by 
starlight, with no distinct plan for the future, and a mortify- 
ing sense of failure in her heart. 


claike’s LOVB-LlFfi. 


§3 


44 Mamma will scold dreadfully, I know,” said Claire id 
herself; “ and there will be the racket of the children, and 
papa's feeble inefficiency, and the lodgers' bells ringing, and 
the smell of greasy mutton-chops pervading everything. Oh, 
dear! what a home to go to — and yet 1 suppose it is a great 
deal better than no home at all. And I dare say I shall get 
another situation again before long." 

And so Claire closed her eyes and tried to sleep — an attempt 
which, it is needless to say, was quite unsuccessful. 

They reached Amiens at about midnight, and the next day’s 
train took the young English governess to Calais in time for 
the Dover steam packet, which was advertised to sail during 
the ensuing night. Claire walked on board with the utmost 
composure and self-possession, and established herself on a 
comfortable camp-stool near the guards, for one glance into 
the ill-ventilated and overcrowded ladies' cabin convinced her 
that remaining on deck would be far preferable to breathing 
the foul air and listening to the wail of fretful children and 
the groans of seasick passengers below. Claire herself was 
happily exempt from the terrors of le mol cle mer , and as she 
wrapped herself in a warm traveling-shawl she felt a sort of 
exultation in the prospect of a night among the stars and the 
waves. 

At that moment a gentleman, who had been walking up 
and down the deck, smoking a cigar and staring up at the 
brilliant sky, stopped at her side and picked up a book which 
lay on the floor. 

“ Pardon, mademoiselle," said he in strongly anglicized 
French, 44 but you have dropped this volume." 

44 Thanks," she answered in her native language, 44 but it 
is not mine." 

44 Then I wonder whose it can be?" 

He spoke half to himself, half to her; but Claire felt her- 
self in no way called upon to help settle the matter, and lean- 
ed comfortably back in her comer, watching the fiery line of 
light cast across the waves by the blaze of a distant light- 
house. But all the while she was quite aware that the stranger 
was tall and handsome, with an overcoat bordered with seal 
fur, and large dark eyes shining out from beneath the brim of 
his seal-trimmed cap. 

Just then the stewardess waddled toward them in hot haste. 

Beg pardon, miss, if you please," said she, 44 but this 'ere 
chair's engaged. Mrs, Betts-Blinn, miss, she's only just left it, 
and she'll be back d'reckly." 

Claire rose, reluctantly enough. She did not exactly like 


claire’s love-life. 


23 


the prospect of spending the night on a coil of rope, or the 
end of a binnacle, and there seemed nothing else in store for 

her. 

“ 1 can bring you up another one from the ladies’ salong, 
miss,” said the stewardess, obsequiously/ “ if you prefer stay- 
ing on deck.” 

“ Thanks; I will not trouble you,” said 'Miss Colonsay, re- 
membering that the low state of her purse was not favorable 
to the feeing of stewardesses or the hire of camp-chairs. But 
as she stood leaning against the guards, a low voice soundech 
close to her ear: 

“ Pray oblige me, mademoiselle, by making use of this 
chair*” 

And Claire found herself looking straight into the eyes of 
the handsome traveler in the seal-bordered cMt and cap. 

** But I shall be depriving you of it,” said she with a little 
hesitation. 

“ On the contrary, it does not belong to me at all,” ho re- 
turned. “ I found it neatly hidden away under the landing- 
ropes, and I claim it only by the right of discovery.” 

Miss Colonsay smiled and accepted the camp-chair. And 
almost ere she was aware of it, she found herself drifting into 
an easy, social sort of conversation with the stranger, who 
leaned against an awning-pillar close by, and seemed to make 
himself exceedingly comfortable there. They talked of music 
and operas, of fashionable books and fashionable authors — of 
the relative merits between life in London and Paris — of a 
thousand topics. Miss Colonsay, as we have before taken oc- 
casion to mention, had infinite self-possession, and a strong 
dash of coquetrynntermingled withal. To her this unconven- 
tional and gypsy way of passing the tedious hours of the night 
was exceedingly agreeable, and the handsome stranger was 
apparently of the same way of thinking. - 

As the hours crept on, and. the breeze blew fresh across the 
channel, Claire shivered and complained of being cold. 

“ How stupid of me never to ha$e thought of it before!” 
/ ■ exclaimed the stranger. “I have a railway rug among my 
other traps— 1 will fetch it instantly.” 

And in another minute Miss Colonsay ’s feet were snugly 
tucked up in the folds of a superb crimson plush robe, and 
the gentleman had disappeared into the cabin, whence he 
presently emerged again, accompanied by a waiter, who bore 
a tray of refreshments and a cup of steaming-hot tea. 

“ But you must drink it,” said he, as Claire demurred. - 
“ All English girls drink tea.” 


claire ? s love-life. 


2L 

So she accepted the trifling attention with a smile and a 
few murmured words of thanks. After all, what was it, more 
than ordinary courtesy? 

“ Look," said her companion, pointing to the horizon line, 
where the chalky cliffs of Dover were already visible in the 
reddening light of dawn, “ we shall land in less than an hour 
now. Are you not sorry?" 

“ Sorry to be in England again?" said Claire. “ You must 
have a poor opinion of my patriotism." 

“ You know very well what I mean," said the gentleman, 
laughing. “ 1 have dreaded this dreary crossing ever since 
1 left Paris. And, after all, how pleasant it has been — how 
different from what 1 expe?ted!" 

“ We have been very much favored by the weather," ob- 
served Claire, demurely. 

“ It would have been just as pleasant to me if the rain had 
been falling in torrents," said the stranger, a little impa- 
tiently. “ Are you sure that you are quite comfortable now?" 

“ Oh, quite!" Claire responded, leaning over the rail, and 
watching the foaming rush of the waves as they broke away 
from the beating pulses of the giant paddle-wheels. 

“ Do you go bn in the early train from Dover?" pursued 
the gentleman. 

Miss Colonsay looked up with a very perceptible surprise. 
She began to think that it was time to check the ardor of her 
new acquaintance. 

“I do not know," said she; “ I have not quite made up 
my mind." 

And then there succeeded an interval of silence, during 
which Claire gazed out upon the horizon, and her companion 
paced slowly, and with folded arms, up and down the narrow 
portion of the deck which was unencumbered with luggage, 
coils of rope, and bales of canvas. 

“ I wonder if we shall ever meet again?" said he, stooping 
to rearrange the folds of the crimson rug where the fresh sea- 
wind had loosened them around her feet, 

“ I am sure I do not know. *1 Claire Colonsay was begin- 
ning to freeze into real English unsociability as the steep, ir- 
regular line of the Dover cliffs drew nearer and more near. 
And, rising to her feet, she added: “ Perhaps I had better go 
below, now, and see after my things, since we shall land pres- 
ently." 

“ Surely it is unnecessary to go so soon?" 

But Claire folded the shawl about her shoulders with the air 


claire’s love-life. 25 

of one who had made an unalterable resolve, and turned to 
the stair-way beyond. 

“ Can not I help you?” persisted the stranger. 

“ Oh, no, thanks. There is very little to attend to,” said . 
Miss Colonsay. “lam very much obliged to you for ycur 
kindness about the rug and the camp-stool.” 

* But he was not disposed to let her escape thus readily. 

“ May 1 not know,” he asked, “ to whom I am indebted 
for this pleasant journey?” 

“ Oh, certainly,” said Miss Colonsay, not at all disturbed 
by the seeming impertinence of the question. “My name is 
Flora Smith, and I wish you a very good-morning.” 

And she went below, secretly laughing to herself as she dis- 
appeared into tha gloom an'd stifled vapors of the little cabin. 

He was watching as the passengers streamed out over the 
gang-plank— watching for her. She knew that, as well as she 
knew the** seal-trimmed coat and cap, with the dark eyes shin- 
ing out underneath, as she walked quietly on shore, with a 
green veil tied tightly over her face and’ head, in the rear of 
the Betts-Blinn party. She saw him walking up and down 
the platform, peering into the windows of all the first-class 
carriages, while she herself took a ticket for a second-class 
passage. And then she smiled again behind the green veil, 
as she saw him enter the last first-class compartment; with 
an impatient frown upon his handsome brow. 

“If so be as you’re goin’ in this train, miss, you’d better 
look alive,” said the porter. And Miss Colonsay, with a 
paper of buns in her pocket, which was to constitute her sole 
breakfast, obeyed his suggestion, with a gracious smile. 

She looked around, rather distastefully, at her fellow-pas- 
sengers as she took her seat: a young mechanic and his wife, 
with a very dirty-faced baby, and a Sister of Charity in a 
poke-bonnet, who carried a basket of flannels in her lap. 
Claire Colonsay was fastidious by nature, and she would in- 
finitely have preferred the velvet cushions and aristocratic se- 
clusion of a first-class compartment. 

“ But 1 am only a poor governess out of a place,” she told 
herself with a little impatient curl of the lip. “ 1 can not 
afford to travel like an English ‘ milor,’ in sealskin wrappings 
and diamond studs.” 

And when at last they reached the London terminus, Claire, 
safely hidden by the enormous poke-bonnet of the Sister of 
Charity, with whom she had managed to enter into conversa- 
tion, once more had the satisfaction of seeing her handsome 


claire 5 s love-life. 


26 

acquaintance of the night before eagerly scanning the faces of 
the crowd ais thev poured out of the long line of carriages. 

“ Really,” said Clairo to herself, “ He seems quite bent on 
finding Flora Smith again. It is almost a pity he should be 
disappointed. ” 

And he was still standing there, regardless of the crowd and 
clamor, his dark eyes searching every face and figure as it 
went by, when she followed the Sister of Charity into a cab. 

“ As we are both going the same way, I can leave you at 
your destination first,” that meek old lady had said. “ And 
it will save expense. Where are you looking?” as Claire’s 
veiled head was stretched once more out of the cab window. 

“ Nowhere in particular,” said Claire; “ only that tall gen- 
tleman there seems to have missed the person whom he is 
looking for.” 

And she burst into a merry peal of laughter, which rather 
astonished her sober and decorous companion. 

“Pray excuse me,” said she, as soon as she was able to 
compose her countenance, “but there are so many incidents 
in travel which strike upon one’s sense of the ridiculous.” 

“ Indeed,” said the Sister of Charity, somewhat stiffly. 

Laugh on, light-hearted Claire! The time may come when 
tears will wash away all memory of these happy moments. 
Enjoy the brief sunshine, for clouds and tempest are nigh at 
hand, poor child! 

The cab rattled on over the grimy London paving-stories, 
the shop windows glided past like the successive scenes of a 
panoramic show, and Claire Colonsay began to realize at last 
that she was once more in the atmosphere of fog and low- 
brooding smoke which she had nearly forgotten in the brilliant 
atmosphere and rustling forest aisles of Picardy. Bright 
France was far away across the ocean, and the gray life of 
London had commenced again for her. Unconsciously she 
sighed, and a dismal foreboding for which she could not ac- 
count crept through her heart like a chill current. 

“It is because 1 am faint, and have passed a sleepless 
night,” she told herself. 

But Claire reasoned falsely. There are electrical moments 
in life in which the misty curtains of the future seem to be 
momentarily lifted, and we stand face to face with the writ- 
ten volume of our destiny. Such a moment had come to our 
young heroine, and in the lush of the Channel’s turbid waves 
and the cold starlight of that April night Claire Colonsay had 
met her fate. 


clairic's love-life. 


27 


CHAPTER IV. 

A COOL RECEPTION". 

The bells were noisily jangling the hour of twelve as the 
cab stopped at No. 19 Hensly Place, and Claire Colonsay bid 
adieu to the kind Sister of Charity, who already seemed like a 
friend, although their acquaintance was of the briefest possible 
date. She rang the door-bell with a sensation of depression 
which seemed to creep over her with the rolling fog and chill 
air of the London streets, and stood waiting on the step, while 
carts and cabs rattled by, street-venders uttered their me- 
chanical cry, and flower-girls thrust their wares intrusively 
under her very nose, with “ Pretty lady, buy a pot of violets, 
only sixpence; or a root of daisies for threepence.” 

Ah, these sickly, withered London flowers! How Claire re- 
coiled from them, as she remembered the buds and blossoms 
that had starred the soft green turf at the Chateau de Cher- 
bouret. And then she rang the bell again, wondering that no 
one came to attend her summons. 

Hensly Place was a crowded little row of houses, which had 
bulged out of Marion Street, like a wart or excrescence, of 
red-brick and mildewed stone. It was not an extensive place, 
but, as the dwellers therein complacently remarked, it was 
very genteel. Not a shop-front marred its exclusive walls — 
not even an apple-stand had the presumption to plant itself on 
the corner. Miss H’Arcy, the milliner’s, tin sign, and the oc- 
casional brass-plate of a dentist, an electrician, or a “genteel 
boarding-house,” were all the public proclamations set up in 
Densly Place. 

But then, if it was genteel, Hensly Place was also ineffably 
dismal. The brick walls were so high and so close together 
that scarce a gleam of sunlight could ever enter in, and a 
sort of damp green mold had started out on the pavement, 
while the atmosphere was close and sunless, and the very win- 
dow-panes seemed to gather damp. Claire shuddered as she 
stood there; she could not help it. 

Just as she was contemplating the expediency of ringing yet 
a third time, a shuffling footstep came along the hall, and a 
maid-servant, with her face tied up as if for toothache, and 
slippers a full size too large for her, opened the door and 
peered suspiciously out. 

“ Is Mrs. Ruby at home?" Claire asked, involuntarily 
shrinking back from the odor of unventilated bedrooms, stale 


28 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


soup, and fried bam, which rushed out at her like a simoon, 
with the opening of the door. 

“Is it about the lodgings, miss?’’ said the maid, with a 
glance at the square bit of paper watered up on the left-hand 
of the door, which *bore the inscription, in large round text, 
“ Furnished Apartments to Let ” “ Because we don’t take 

no ladies, miss — none but gentlemen.” 

“ I wish to see Mrs. Ruby,” said Claire, shortly. “ Open 
the door, please, and let me come in. ” 

“ 1 don’t know as you can see her, miss,” persisted the 
maid. “ She’s most generally particular engaged at this time 
of day. But I’ll inquire, miss, if you’ll step in.” 

“ Who is it, Betsey Jane?” shrilly inquired a voice over the 
stair-rails above. “ If it’s the young lady with the tracts — ” 

But Claire hurried toward the stair- way, regardless .of the 
maid’s repeated vociferation of “ This way, miss, this way.” 

“Mamma!” cried she, with a keen pang of mortification, 
“ it is I— Claire. Don’t you know me?” 

“ Bless my heart alive!” cried out Mrs. Ruby, “ it’s never 
you, child! Why, where on earth did you come from?” 

By this time Claire had reached the landing-place, and was 
being kissed by a stout middle-aged woman, in a rusty black 
dress, a faded shawl, and a head whose double row of curl- 
papers was only half concealed by a slovenly cap. She had a 
double chin, a red face, and sharp, black eyes, and she smelled 
strongly of musk, of which odor she was inordinately fond. 

“ Come into the parlor, child,” said Mrs. Ruby. “ Louisa’s 
practicin’ her lesson, and there’s no fire, but Betsey Jane’ll 
light a spark in a minute. And 1 suppose you’d like a cup of 
tea and a bite of something- to eat, if. you’ve just come off a 
journey.” 

Thus speaking, Mrs. Ruby ushered her unexpected guest 
into a dreary room, where carpet, curtains, and chair-covers 
were* all faded into one undistinguishable brown, and a girl of 
about fifteen, wrapped in a tattered worsted shawl, was dili- 
gently strumming on a piano which was decidedly out of tune. 
The table was covered with a shade of atrociously ugly wax- 
flowers, and two or three tarnished “ Gift Annuals;” the 
blacked grate was filled with crimped shavings of pink and 
green tissue-paper, and the apartment, taken as a whole, was 
about as cheerful as if it had been a family vault. 

The girl who was practicing started up and turned impa- 
tiently around, thereby disclosing her mother’s sharp, black, 
eyes, red cheeks, and bluut features, on a more youthful scale. 


claire’s loye-life. 


29 


“ Good gracious, ma!” cried she, “ what do you bring com- 
pany in here for; while I’m doing my scales?” 

“ Hush-sh-sh!” spoke up the mother. 44 It’s your sister 
Claire, my dear. Go and tell Betsey Jane to bring up a cup 
of tea and a buttered crumpet or so — and the coals, Louisa, 
do you hear?” 

Which order Miss Louisa, after saluting her sister with a 
kiss that smelled very strongly of fried onions, hastened to 
obey. Her departure, however, seemed thg signal for a gen- 
eral incursion of children of various ages and sizes; all, how- 
ever, with the red cheeks, coarse dark hair, and black eyes, 
which bespoke a common maternity. And not one of them 
in the least degree resembled Claire Colonsay. 

“ My brothers and sisters,” she thought, as she set the last 
one off her lap. “ I wonder why they all seem so disagree- 
able to me?” 

She eat her buttered crumpets, and drank her smoky tea, 
listening to Mrs. Ruby’s voluble account of the bad luck she 
had had with her lodgers, the depravity of her servants, and 
the general inefficiency of her husband. 

“ And I do hope, Claire, that you’re prepared to help me a 
little,” said she, her’voice unconsciously settling into a whine; 
4 4 for now that the children’s schooling is getting so expensive, 
and Louisa’s music must be kept up, I do assure you, I some- 
times don’t know which way to look for a pound note.” 

Claire set down her tea-cup, and pushed away the tray; 
what little appetite she originally possessed had deserted her 
now. < 

44 Mamma,” said she, 44 1 am very sorry, but J can not help 
you.” 

44 Can not help me!” shrilly echoed Mrs. Ruby, who was 
on her knees before the grate, trying to coax the damp kind- 
lings to ignite the still damper lumps of coal, and who now 
rose- and turned to her daughter with a countenance of dis- 
may. 44 And why not, with such a fine situation as you’ve 
got out there among the French grandees?” 

44 1 have left my situation, mamma.” 

44 Left it!” Mrs. Ruby dropped the fire-shovel with a clang 
on the hearth. 44 Left it, Claire?” 

. 44 1 have been dismissed, mamma.” 

44 Claire Colonsay!” ejaculated the matron, 44 1 have no pa- 
tience with you! A situation like that, as might have made 
your fortune! And how did it happen?” 

With burning cheeks, and eyes fixed intently on the grate, 
Claire related the whole occurrence, just as it had transpired, 


30 


claire’s love-life. 


“ And served you quite right for giving way to your temper 
in that sort of way!” burst in Mrs. Ruby. “ IIow long do 
you expect to keep your situations, if this is the way you’re 
going to conduct yourself? I desire, Claire, that you will re- 
turn at once to this Madame de What's-her-name, and hum- 
bly ask her pardon; and perhaps, if she has not already suited 
herself, she will take you back again.” 

Involuntarily Claire shrunk back from the sharp accents of 
her mother's voice. 

“ I can not do that, mamma,” said she. 

“And what, may I ask, do you intend to do?” demanded 
Mrs. Ruby; “because, if you're making your calculations to 
settle down on me, I tell you at once that 1 shall not allow it. 
With my family, and all I've lost during the past year with 
my lodgers, and your father no better than the dummy in a 
barber's show-window! If there's a poor woman in all Lon- 
don more tried than 1 am, I'd like to see her, that's all! 
Quick, Louisa,” to the black-eyed musician, “ there's the bell 
again— -Mr. Jarrock's bell— and Betsey Jane paying no more 
attention to it than if she was stone deaf! You attend it, 
there’s a dear, and I'll run down myself and see if his break- 
fast coffee is ready.” 

When she returned, her daughter had already assumed her 
hat and cloak, and was fitting on her gloves in nervous haste. 

“Where are you going?” she demanded, fretfully. “I 
was just ^Joout to ash: you to trim up a cap or two for me. 
You ought to be handy with 'em after living in France.” 

“ 1 am going out for a little walk, mamma,” said Claire, 
fastening the veil over her face. “ 1 will attend to your caps 
some other time.” 

“7 haven't got the time for walking,” said Mrs. Ruby, 
“ nor Louisa never gets a chance to put her nose out-of- 
doors; but we are not fine ladies that go about flinging away 
their situations.” 

Claire nutde no answer to this taunt, but went down-stairs 
again. Her head ached, and she felt the want of sleep sadly; 
but anything was better, she thought, than sitting in that 
damp, stuffy little parlor and listening to the shrill reproaches 
of her mother and the garrulous questioning of Louisa, who 
was just old enough to be disagreeable. And she had firmly 
made up her mind to go at once to the office of the Golden 
Eagle Insurance Company, where Mr. Ruby held an insignifi- 
cant clerkship, and appeal to the generosity of the step-father, 
who had always been kinder far to her than her own mother, 
for a trifling loan, that might enable her to enter her name 


CLAIRE o LOYE-LIFE. 


31 


upon the books of the nearest educational agency; for the 
journey from Amiens had entirely exhausted her slender 
funds, and she had already perceived that No. 19 Densly Place 
would be no haven of refuge for her weary feet. 

As the omnibus rattled over the uneven pavements, poor 
Claire leaned back in the corner, and made no effort to re- 
press the tears which dropped behind her veil. Ordinarily 
she would have had courage to withstand the depressing influ- 
ences of even such a greeting as she had just received from 
her mother; but she was worn and weary now, and her heart 
longed for some kindly shelter. 

“ What a coward I am!” she told herself, as she got out of 
the omnibus, opposite the fat gilded letters and outspread 
auriferous wings of the typical bird above the plate-glass win- 
dows of the Golden Eagle Insurance Company. “But this 
mood will pass off soon, and then I shall be myself again.” 

Inquiring for Mr* Ruby at the counter, she was shown into 
a pretty little back office, where there were plants in the win- 
dow and a gigantic iron safe, with the clerks’ overcoats and 
hats hanging around, and a fire in the grate, which felt com- 
fortable after Claire’s long omnibus ride. And Mr. Ruby 
himself trotted in presently — a stout, short little man, with a 
pen behind his ear, his coat-sleeves shielded by covers of black 
cambric, and a shining bald head, like a croquet-ball. 

“ Why, Claire!” cried he. “ Little Claire!” 

And “ little Claire,” who was a full head and shoulders 
taller than her step-father, ran into the little man’s wide- 
opened arms. 

“ Yes, papa,” said she, trying hard not to sob, “it is I, 
home again.” 

“ I hope there’s nothing wrong, my dear,” said Mr. Ruby, 
drawing her chair nearer to the fire, and seating himself di- 
rectly opposite with looks of affectionate solicitude. “ Your 
health hasn’t given way?” 

“ No, papa,” said Claire; “ but 1 have been turned out of 
my situation. ” 

“ Turned out!” echoed Mr. Ruby; but his way of repeat- 
ing her utterances was very different from that of her mother. 
“ Dear, dear! But it can’t be possible, Claire, my girl!” 

“ It is possible, papa,” said Claire. And she told him the 
whole story, just as she had told her mother. 

“ Unfortunate, my dear, very unfortunate,” said Mr. Ruby, 
sympathetically rubbing his hands, “ but not your fault, 
Clair®» You did right. Quite right. And we’re glad to have 


32 


claire’s loye-llfe. 


you at home again, my girl, and you’re welcome to stay there 
as long as you like.” 

Claire smiled faintly. “ There you are mistaken, papa,” 
said she. “ I am not welcome; mamma declines to receive 
me.” 

“The deuce she does!” said Mr. Ruby, his round, jocund 
countenance falling, his hands pausing in their mechanical 
friction. “Why, my dear, she’s your own mother, isn’t 
she?” 

“ Yes,” said Claire, “ she is my own mother. But she is 
not inclined, she says, to encourage me in idleness and 
caprice.” 

Mr. Ruby felt thoughtfully of his chin, and stared at the 
red coals in the grate. 

“ Little Claire,” said he, “ she’s a remarkable woman, 
your mother. A good manager, and a capital housekeeper, 
and all that sort of thing; but ” — lowering his voice to a 
mysterious whisper, as he advanced his head nearer to Claire’s 
— “ she has a temper! And when that’s once roused, there’s 
no calculating on her. Well, my dear, if she won’t have you 
at No. 19, she won’t. That’s a settled question.” 

“ 1 am afraid it is,” said Claire. 

“Well, then, my dear,” said Mr. Ruby, “ what are you 
going to do? How much money have you left?” 

“Not any,” answered his step-daughter. 

“Not — any!” Mr. Ruby began to feel nervously in his 
pockets. “Then, my dear, 1 must give you some. You’re 
my own wife’s daughter, Claire, and I can’t see you want. 
And, luckily, my quarter’s salary was paid this morning — 
twenty pounds. Eighty pounds a year isn’t an absurdly large 
income, my love, but it’s better than nothing these hard 
times. And I’ll cheerfully go halves with you, little Claire. 
We were always good friends, eh?” 

Claire felt her eyes suffusing as the generous-hearted little 
man extended toward her a handful of crumpled notes. 

“No, papa,” said she, “ 1 can not take it. You have 
needs of your own, and I can get along with much less. If 
you will lend me five pounds, that will be an abundance, and 
I will repay it as soon as possible.” 

“ You’re sure it will be enough, Claire?” 

“ Oh, quite sure, papa.” 

Upon this assurance, Mr. Ruby once more replaced the re- 
maining notes in his pocket-book with a long sigh. 

“ But mind, my dear,” said he, with a scared look over his 
left shoulder, as if he had heard his wife’s brisk step in the 


CLAIRE ? S LOVE-LIFE. 


aa 

passage, “ this is quite confidential between you and me, this 
little business transaction. Your mother mightn't quite ap- 
prove of it, Claire. She is a wonderful woman, is your 
mother, my dear, and a most excellent manager, but there 
are some things in which we don't quite think alike. And 
now, my love, if you're quite through, I had better return to 
my desk. It's a busy day at the office, and I've a deal of 
writing-up to do yet." 

And Claire Colonsay bid her good little step-father adieu, 
and went back home with a light heart. Mrs. Ruby met her 
on the threshold with a suspicious look. 

“ Well!" said she, “ have you got another situation yet?" 

“ Not yet, mamma," said Claire. “ But I shall go to the 
Ardenham Street Bureau to-morrow, and to Mrs. Dyckman's, 
on Yellowcross. Square. " 

“ Ilumph!" said Mrs. Ruby. “ I see no reason why you 
shouldn't have gone to-day. But girls, nowadays, don't seem 
to have any energy! Run, Betsey Jane, there's Mr. Jarrock's 
bell again!" 


CHAPTER Y. 

LADY LYDIA GRAFTON. 

Dinner at No. 19 Densly Place was a scrambling, slovenly 
sort of meal, served in a gloomy room, which boasted no out- 
side window, and was perpetually lighted by gas — a room so 
unavailable for all purposes of lodging that Mrs. Ruby felt no 
economical scruples against appropriating it to her own do- 
mestic purposes. The soup was lukewarm and watery; the 
meat a warmed-over joint from yesterday; and the vegetables 
consisted of soggy potatoes and a dish of half-boiled cauli- 
flower, while a withered tart comprised all the pretensions 
that were made to dessert. 

Mr. Ruby had feigned very indifferent surprise at meeting 
his step-daughter, and was engaged in carving the meat — no 
slight task with seven mouths to supply — when his wife hur- 
ried in, with her cap-strings flying behind. 

“ Well, Ruby," said she, seating herself, “ Jones has paid 
up." 

“ Has he, my dear?" said Mr. Ruby, still wrestling with the 
carving-knife. 

“ And a good thing, too. I began to think I never should 
see the color of his money," said the lady. “ Augustus, do 
leave off drumming on the table with your knife-handle." 

“ That shows the folly of rash judgment, don't it, my 
3 


34 claire's love-life. 

dear?" said Mr. Ruby. “ Will you have the fat and lean to- 
gether, Claire?" 

“ You don’t seem half so much" surprised at seeing Claire 
back as 1 thought you would be. Ruby," said the lady, jerk- 
ing the sugar-bowl out of the reach of her youngest hope, a 
plump little boy of three, with a double chin exactly like his 
father’s. 

“ I have learned not to be surprised at anything, my dear," 
was the evasive answer of her lord and master. 

“ By the way," observed Mrs. Ruby, as if a thought had 
suddenly occurred to her, “ you were paid your salary to-day. 
It’s the fifteenth, isn't it?" 

“ Yes, my dear," said Mr. Ruby, laying down the carving- 
knife and fork; “ it is the fifteenth day of April!" 

“ Then you may as well hand over the money at once," 
•remarked Mrs. Ruby. “The rent has got to be paid, and 
there's that exorbitant plumber’s bill." 

“ Hadn't we better wait until after dinner, my dear?" said 
Mr. Ruby, looking intently at the cauliflower. 

“No, we hadn’t," retorted his wife*' “ 1 never saw any 
one like you. Ruby; you are always for putting off things!" 

Silently the wretched little insurance clerk put his hand 
down into his trousers pocket and fished up a roll of notes. N 

“ Charley," said he, to the apple -faced boy who sat nearest 
to him, “ give that to your mother." 

Mrs. Ruby took the roll and counted it over — once — twice 
— three times. 

“ Charley," said she, “ you’ve dropped some." 

“No, I haven’t, ma," said Charley. 

“ But 1 say you have!" peremptorily contradicted Mrs. 
Ruby. “ Look and see!" 

A search, however, only confirmed the accuracy of Master 
Charles Ruby's statement. 

“ 1 don’t understand this, Ruby," sdd the lady, grimly. 
“ Your quarterly salary is twenty pounds — and here are only 
fifteen." 

“Only fifteen, my dear!" repeated her husband, faintly. 

“ Only fifteen!" 

Once more Mr. Ruby put his hand down into his pocket, 
leaning back in his chair and staring hard at the four corners 
of the ceiling, as if he expected to derive -^ome inspiration 
therefrom. 

Claire watched him with a curious sensation- which was 
compounded half of amusement, half of dread. 
s “ Ain’t it there?" said Mrs. Ruby. 


claire’s love-life. 


35 


“ No, my dear, it isn’t,” said Mr. Ruby. 

“ Then,” said the lady, sharply, “ where is it?” 

“ I — must have lost it!” doggedly asserted the insurance 
clerk. 

“ Lost it!” shrieked Mrs. Ruby. “ Lost a five-pound 
note! No, Ruby, never expect me to believe that. You’ve 
drunk it away, perhaps, or you’ve gambled it away, or you’ve 
spent it in some low hole that you’re ashamed to mention in 
a decent house like this— but you’ve ne-ver lost it!” 

“ I must have lost it,” repeated Mr. Ruby, while the chil- 
dren, well accustomed to scenes like this, went on eating their 
dinner with the utmost indifference. 

“And you dare to sit there and tell me that!” almost 
screamed the infuriated wife. But Claire could endure it no 
longer, and, in spite of her step-father’s winks and nods, she 
interposed, with burning cheeks and downcast eyes. 

“ Mamma,” said she, “ 1 have got it!” 

Mrs. Ruby turned to the girl in amazement. 

“ Got ivhat V ’ said she. 

“ The five-pound note — I borrowed it from papa,” Claire 
answered. 

“ Then you will please return it to me,” said Mrs. Ruby, if 
possible, more indignant than ever. “ I will tolerate no bor- 
rowings and lendings in this underhand manner.” 

“ My dear, my dear!” interposed Mr. Ruby. 

But Claire took the bone of contention from her purse, and 
silently extended it toward her mother, while her step-father 
sat looking helplessly on. Then she rose from the table and 
went up to her own room, too angry to trust herself to any 
further discussion of the subject. 

Nor did she come down-stairs again that night; and Betsey 
Jane brought her a cup of tea in her room next morning. 

She had been searching in the contents of her trunk for a 
piece of rare old lace which little Pauline had given her at the 
Chateau de Cherbouret — a yard or so — which she knew would 
bring a good price in any of the London emporiums. 

“ With the money they give me for this,” she thought, “ I 
can pay my own way for a few days at least.” 

And hurrying down-stairs, when Mrs. Ruby was busiest and 
Louisa’s piano sounded a melancholy refrain up and down the 
staircase, Claire contrived to escape from the house without 
attracting the notice of her mother. 

She had no money left now for omnibus fare, and it was 
fortunate for her that a fashionable business thoroughfare was 
situated at no great distance from Densly Place. Into the first 


claire's love-life. 


86 

large shop she entered, and made her errand known to the 
proprietor. He looked superciliously at the contents of her 
little parcel. 

“ I think, miss,” he said, “ you must be under a mistake. 
We don't do that sort of business here. The second-hand es- 
tablishments are in quite another quarter of the city.” 

“But this is French point de Venise,” pleaded Claire, 
looking earnestly up into his face. “It is very old, and of 
great intrinsic value.” 

“ Possibly — very possibly,” said the man, looking serenely 
over the top of her head in the direction of some elegantly 
dressed ladies who were just alighting at the door. “ But we 
prefer to deal in more modern wares.” 

And Claire went out of the shop, the key-note of her spirits 
a little lowered, although she tried to persuade herself that 
this man was an ignorant boor, quite unaware of the value of 
an ancient relic like this. 

At the next establishment her lace met with more consider- 
ation. The head of the firm examined it through a micro- 
scope, and pronounced it of rare texture and pattern, and yel- 
lowed by age to exactly the desirable color. 

“ How much do you ask for it, mademoiselle?” said he, 
unconsciously taking Claire for a French girl. She smiled at 
the mistake, but did not correct it. “ Two guineas a yard? 
Then,” with a slight shrug of the shoulders, “ it is quite use- 
less to discuss the question further. I might possibly have 
offered you a guinea — but even old lace has its limitation in 
value.” 

“ I was told, in Amiens, that it was worth three guineas at 
least. ” 

“ Oh! Then perhaps it was a pity that you did not dispose 
of it there.” 

One of the clerks came up 3t this moment to ask a ques- 
tion, and Claire availed herself of the opportunity to turn 
away with the precious lace still in her traveling reticule. 

The third establishment which she tried was larger and 
more splendid than either of its predecessors had been, and as 
this was the fashionable hour for shopping, it was crowded 
with brilliantly dressed ladies. Claire had some difficulty in 
obtaining an interview with Mr. Fortescue — the name of the 
firm was Farringdon & Fortescue — and he looked rather du- 
biously at the choice scrap of old point de Venise. 

“ It is of no value except as a curiosity,” said he, stroking 
a well-waxed mustache. “ Not enough of it, you see, to trim 
anything but a baby's cap, and they don't put this style of 


CLA IRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


37 


lace on caps. I might sell it to some relic-hunting old lady 
to-morrow, or 1 might keep it on my shelves for years. One 
alternative is as likely as the other, and it’s running too great 
a risk, you see. How much is there of it? a yard and a half? 
Well, HI say a guinea for the piece!” 

“ Take it, then, at that price,” said poor Claire, despair- 
ingly. And Mr. Fortescue, who had an inward conviction 
that he was driving a very- good bargain, promptly produced 
the piece of gold, and locked up the lace in one of his own 
desk-drawers. 

“ If you should chance to come into possession of any more 
lace like that,” said he, “ you might as well let us look at it 
before you dispose of it elsewhere.” 

“ Thanks!” Claire coldly responded, “ but 1 do not now 
believe that 1 ever shall.” 

As she walked down the long glittering aisle of the shop, 
with plate-glass topped counters and smirking clerks on either 
side, she came face to face with a young lady who was just 
entering. Without looking up, she instinctively stepped 
aside to let her pass. 

“ Claire Colonsay! is it really you, or am I asleep and 
dreaming?” exclaimed a sweet, rather high-pitched voice. 
“ Don’t you remember me? Lydia Grafton. At old Mother 
Hobson’s, in Hertfordshire. Well, if it isn’t the strangest 
thing that we should meet here of all places in the world. 
I thought you had gone to be a governess in France.” 

It was of no use trying*to escape from the glad gratulations 
and joyous questionings of Lady Lydia Grafton, who had been 
Miss Colon say’s classmate at Hobson Hall, scarcely more than 
a year ago. She was a pretty, untidy-looking girl, with a 
Parisian hat half off her head, a profusion of flaxen hair, 
which had somehow got loosened from the comb and hung in 
shining braids on her shoulders, a Delhi shawl worn on one 
side, and a general appearance of having dressed herself in a 
hurry, without looking at the glass. Her large, light-blue 
eyes were beaming with good humor, however; her wide 
mouth showed a double row of perfect teeth whenever she 
laughed or spoke; and even the freckles, with which her face 
was liberally besprinkled, could not make her absolutely 
plain. 

“ Tell me all about it!” said Lady Lydia, imperiously. 
“ Or stay — my carriage is at the door, and we’'ll go to Po- 
tentini’s and get an ice, and there we can talk without danger 
of interruption.” 

There was no resisting Lady Lydia. She whirled Claire 


38 


claire’s love-life. 


away as if she had been a good-natured tempest, followed her 
into a satin-cushioned coupe, which was waiting outside 
and called to the coachman, “ Drive to Patentings.” 

“ You’re as pretty as ever, dear, aren’t you?” said she, 
looking admiringly into Claire’s face. “ Oh, dear, how I 
used to envy you your good looks when we were at school. 
Do you remember my taking the skin off my face with that 
patent elixir 1 tried for the removal of freckles? And of 
course you’re engaged to marry some French count or other 
now, and you were ordering your trousseau in at Farringdon 
& Fortescue’s when I stumbled across you?” 

“ No, Lady Lydia, I was not,” said Claire, calmly; “ I 
was selling a piece of French lace to keep myself from starva- 
tion.” 

Lady Lydia Grafton opened her light-blue eyes very wide. 

“ Claire,” said she, “ I always thought you looked like the 
heroine of a novel, and now I’m certain of it. Starvation! 
How deliciously romantic! Here we are at Potentini’s— and 
now let’s hear the whole story from beginning to end. Straw- 
berry ices and sponge-cake, please ” — to the waiter — “ and be 
quick about it.” 

Claire Colonsay was not long in making up her mind that 
it was best to repose full confidence in Lady Lydia, who was 
as good-hearted as she was rattle-brained. And she told her 
the brief story of her adventures, to which Lady Lj^dia 
listened with the spoonful of pink ice half-way between her 
lips and the saucer. 

“ And what are you going to do now?” demanded she. 

“ I don’t know,” said Claire. “ Yes, I suppose .1 do, too. 

I shall take this guinea” — glancing down at the solitary 
golden occupant of her netted purse — “ and invest it in a 
subscription to some intelligence bureau or agency for gov- 
ernesses, and — ” 

Lady Lydia dropped her spoon into the melting ice, heed- 
less of the- splashes that soiled her rose-colored bonnet- 
strings. 

“No, Claire, you will not,” said she. “Mamma has 
come to town expressly to engage a companion and reader. 
And you are the person to fill the situation.” 

“ I, Lady Lydia?” 

“Yes, you. Why not? Mamma’s the jolliest old lady 
you ever saw; you can’t help liking her, and she can’t help 
liking you. Come home with me at once. Kate Carew is 
there, too— you remember Kate Carew, don’t you, at old 
Hobson’s? She is staying with me until her father gets back 


CLAIRE^S LOVE-LIFE. 39 

from Paris, and we were talking about you only yesterday. 
Isn’t it strange?” 

“ But, Lady Lydia,” pleaded Claire, whose astonished brain 
was all in a whirl; “ all this is so sudden! What will your 
mother think?” 

“ She’ll be delighted at my good luck in pouneiug on such 
a splendid companion for her!” said Lady Lydia, as she 
dragged Claire once again into the satin-cushioned carriage, 
with its mirrored panels and ivory- mounted pockets, calling 
out “ Home!” to the driver. 

And before Claire could fairly comprehend the situation 
she was being ushered into a blue and silver boudoir in a 
handsome house in Grosvenor Square — a room scented with 
hyacinths and tea-rose buds, where a low fire burned in the 
hearth, and a blue satin sofa was drawn up behind an antique 
Japanese screen of sandal-wood and pale-blue silk — a sofa 
upon which reclined a languid, faded beauty, dressed in white 
cashmere, trimmed with swans’-down, with diamonds glitter- 
ing upon her slender hands, and a faint odor of attar of roses 
lingering like a subtle atmosphere about her. 

This was the Countess of Littleton, Lady Lydia Grafton’s 
widowed mother. The Earl of Littleton had long since been 
dead, in fact, his friends were wont to say that he had been 
killed by the disappointment of his only child being a daugh- 
ter instead of a son; and the title had reverted to a distant 
relative. But the property belonged to Lady Littleton her- 
self, and she and her daughter lived luxuriously where they 
pleased. 

“ Mamma,” cried Lady Lydia, vehemently, “ I’ve done a 
splendid stroke of work this morning; I’ve, engaged a com- 
panion for you.” 

“ A companion, Lydia?” Lady Littleton sat up on the 
sofa, in surprise. She was far prettier and more delicate than 
her daughter, and the soft languor of her manner presented a 
striking contrast to Lady Lydia’s straightforward boisterous- 
ness. 

“ A companion, mamma. Here she is! Claire, this is my 
mother. Mamma, this is Miss Colonsay, my old schoolmate 
at Miss Hobson’s, and the very person you want to read to 
you and measure out your bromide and valerian.” 

And then, sitting on the rug in front of Lady Littleton’s 
sofa, with one of .the countess’s delicate hands pressed affec- 
tionately against her cheek. Lady Lydia repeated the story 
which Claire had just told her. 

“You’ll engage her, Mopsey, won’t you?” said she (Mop- 


40 


claire’s loye-life. 

sey being her pet name for the countess). “ She’s so nice and 
so pretty! And old Hobson will give her a crack recommend- 
ation; and 1 shall enjoy it so much. Do say yes, Mopsey." 

And Lady Littleton, who had never, in all her life, opposed 
the least of her daughter's whims, yielded at once. 

“ My dear," said she to Claire, who stood by, coloring and 
embarrassed, “you must forgive Lydia's bluntness and lack 
of consideration." 

“ Lack of consideration, indeed," said Lady Lydia, with a 
grimace. “ I'm sure I don't know what this blessed little 
Mopsey of mine means." 

“ I shall be delighted if you will accept the position," went 
on Lady Littleton. . “I do not olfer a high salary — fifty 
pounds a year is all that I have ever given; but, on the other 
hand, the duties are not arduous. And if, at the end of a 
month, you find that you are not suited, 1 shall not urge you 
to remain with me. We can try each other, you see, in this 
way." 

“ Oh, Lady Littleton," cried Claire, scarcely able to credit 
her own good fortune, “ if only I can be able to please you." 

“ Lydia is .fond of you," said Lady Littleton, with a soft 
smile. “ And I am always pleased with what pleases Lydia." 

“ But let's talk business," briskly interrupted Lady Lydia. 
“How soon can you come, Claire? Mopsey is already nearly 
dead with the fatigue of reading the ‘ Morning Post ' to her- 
self and instructing her stupid maid how to pour out the 
quieting drops that keep her dear little head from flying off." 

“ I can come this very evening, if you wish," said Claire, 
with alacrity. 

“Bravo!” cried Lady Lydia, clapping her dimpled hands 
together. “ Carlton shall call a cab at once — and you will be 
here in time for dinner. Dear little Mopsey" — kneeling 
down on the floor, and flinging both her arms around her 
mother's neck — “ haven't I done a good day's work for you 
this morning?" 

Great was the surprise at Ho. 19 Densly Place that after- 
noon when Claire Colonsay returned to its classic portals in a 
hansom cab. 

“ Well," said Mrs. Ruby, sharply, as she met her daughter 
on the stairs; “ I suppose, of course, you have got a place?" 

How, Mrs. Ruby did not suppose anything of the kind; but 
she was just in that amiable mood which leads one to say the 
most disagreeable things one can think of; and she was con- 
siderably taken aback when Claire answered, composedly: 

“ Yes, mamma, 1 have." 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


41 


“ 1 hope it’s a respectable one!” said Mrs. Ruby, acidly. 
“ Because, if it isn’t, I beg you will dissolve all connection 
with us !” 

“ I believe it is tolerably respectable,” said Claire, smiling, 
in spite of herself. “I am to be companion to the Countess 
of Littleton.” 

“ To the — Countess of Littleton!” Mrs. Ruby, like all 
vulgar people, was an inveterate worshiper of rank and title; 
and she quailed before the glittering words. “ Well, I never ! 
You have done well for yourself, Claire, I do declare.” 

“ Let me pass, mamma, if you please,” said Claire. “ My 
box is ready packed, and the cabman is waiting to carry it 
down.” 

“ You’re not going now ?” 

“ Yes, 1 am.” 

“ Won’t you have a cup of tea, first?” 

Mrs. Ruby was disposed to be amiable enough now; but 
Claire was in no mood for unnecessary delays. She waited 
only for her box to be brought down, and then she bid Mrs. 
Ruby a quiet but by no means demonstrative adieu. 

The lady looked sourly after her as the cab drove away. 
She had never cared much for this sole daughter of her first 
marriage; she cared still less for her since Claire had gone 
out into the world to fight its battles for herself. Upon the 
whole, it was a relief to have her gone. 

“ Oh, ma!”*said breathless Louisa, who had listened to the 
colloquy from behind the parlor door, “ I wish 1 could be 
companion to the Countess of Littleton.” 

“Hold- your tongue!” said Mrs. Ruby, sharply; “ and go 
down-stairs and see what Charley is crying about. Well, 1 
never! What ibill* Ruby say?” 


CHAPTER VI. 

WILD ASPENS. 

Setting time and distance at defiance, our story now trans- 
ports us to a lovely glade in the southern part of England, 
from which rise up the marble towers of Wild Aspens, a 
superb country-seat belonging to Baron Aspendale. 

Wild Aspens was the show-place of all the country around. 
Artists traveled miles to sketch the bits of scenery which 
lurked in its woods and beside its water-falls; tourists went out 
of the beaten track to visit the picture-gallery and admire the 
Italian frescoing of the grand entrance-hall. One day in 
every week the grounds, conservatories, and most of the house 


42 


claire’s love-life. 


were thrown open to visitors; and upon these frequently re- 
curring occasions the housekeeper and butler reaped a rich 
harvest from the freely accorded gratuities of sight-seers. 
Picnics from the neighboring town of Stoke Aspen had also 
been allowed to use the glen, until one unlucky day on which 
Lord Aspendale had found his rhododendrons broken down 
and a pet fawn lamed in the beech hollow. 

“ Peters,” said|he to his bailiff, “ there was a Bookbinders’ 
Association picnic here yesterday, wasn’t there?” 

“ There was, my lord,” answered the man. 

“You will give directions that no more pleasure-parties of 
that description are admitted,” said Lord Aspendale. “ If 
people don’t know how to conduct themselves in private 
grounds they had better be excluded altogether.” 

And so the sylvan paradise of Wild Aspens was closed 
thenceforward against the vulgar herd of picnickers. 

The house was of gray marble, with a portico supported by 
majestic Corinthian columns, and having on either side a 
group of statuary whose snowy pureness glistened in the sun- 
shine as if they had been carved out of frozen snow; and 
smaller wings, extending to the north and south of the main 
building, contained the picture-gallery and tropical conserva- 
tory for which Wild Aspens was so justly celebrated; and the 
lawns, level as any floor, and velvet smooth, sloped away to 
the wooded glens, which seemed to inclose the mansion like a 
great wall. In the hollow beyond, the blue waters of a lake 
gleamed upward to the sunshine, and a merry little water-fall 
went leaping down shelving masses of rock, whose ferny wil- 
dernesses were so perfectly true to nature that no one but Lord 
Aspendale and his landscape gardener ever dreamed that they 
were the production of art alone. 

Such was Wild Aspens. And the lord of all its fair domains 
was sitting at that instant in a sort of reading-roomer study, 
whose windows opened to the south— a room whose marble 
floor was covered by a Persian rug of deep-blue velvet, fringed 
and bordered with gold, and whose brilliant casements were 
veiled with folds of deep-blue satin, fastened to a gilded rod 
by huge sliding rings of dead gold. The walls were of deli- 
cate sky blue, the ceiling in exquisite representation in fresco 
of “ Sunset,” with painted clouds of rose and gold, and a 
shadowy impersonation of the “ Evening Star ” floating over- 
head, with a planet blazing on her brow. The mantel was a 
shelf of blue velvet, upheld by marble nymphs, on each side 
of which low, carved walnut book-cases contained stores of 
old English literature in the rare and antique bindings which 


CLAlRE^S LOVE-LIFE. 


43 

alone constitute a fortune; and a desk of the same plain but 
substantial wood was drawn into the middle of the room, and 
heaped with books, pamphlets, and writing materials. At 
this desk sat Lord Aspendale himself — a tall, spare man of at 
least sixty autumns, with a ruddy English complexion, hair as 
white as snow, and shaggy white eyebrows overhanging his 
keen blue eyes like a thatch of snow. His chin, slightly pro- 
truding, bore the stamp of a somewhat arbitrary disposition; 
his teeth were white and sound as ivory; and although no one 
would have called him a handsome man, no one would have 
ventured to deny that he carried in port and bearing the 
aspect of a thorough gentleman. 

He had been glancing listlessly over the columns of a local 
journal. He laid it down as the clock struck six, and touched 
a small hand-bell beside him. 

“ Johnson,” said he, to the servant who promptly appeared 
in the door- way, “ has the dog-cart gone to the train for Mr. 
Malcolm?” 

“ Yes, my lord; more than fifteen minutes ago, my lord.” 

“ Very well. Let him come to me at once when he ar- 
rives.” 

“ Yes, my lord.” 

And once more Lord Aspendale sat alone, with his eyes 
fixed on the sea-coal fire, which glowed and crackled softly in 
the grate. 

Alone. He had been alone all his life, and a half hour 
more or less of solitude mattered little to him. He had had 
his love-dream, like other young idiots, when love and life and 
all the world seemed new to him, and the woman to whom he 
had been engaged had deliberately flung faith and honor and 
rectitude to the winds, and eloped to Switzerland with a mar- 
ried man on the very eve of their wedding-day. Since that 
hour Baron Aspendale’s life had changed, utterly and entire- 
ly. He had lived a self-contained and secluded existence, 
spending part of his year abroad, part at the Aspens, and 
skillfully steering clear of the various matrimonial gins and 
snares that were spread for his behoof by match-making moth- 
ers and bashful daughters. In society he mingled but little, 
devoting most of his time to reading, study, and scientific re- 
search; and, if there was any one strong feeling in his heart, 
it was that of affection toward Malcolm Aspendale, the son of 
a distant cousin, who was the nearest relative he had; and, 
although Wild Aspens and its ample rent-rolls were his own, 
to devise as seemed best to him, in his secret heart he enter- 
tained a preference for an heir bearing the name of Aspen- 


44 


claire’s love-life. 


dale, and carrying in his veins the blood of Aspendale. And 
his stern face relaxed for a moment as the casement opening 
on the lawn was flung open, and a tall, handsome young man 
entered, with a black-and*tan terrier at his heels. 

“ Well, Uncle Laurence, here I am! Made the distance 
from the station in less than twenty minutes. How are you?” 
with a cordial clasp of the hand. “ As well as usual, I hope? 
You don’t object to Jessie, do you?” with a glance toward 
the terrier, who was coiling herself up, after a most satisfied 
fashion, on the mossy rug in front of the blaze. 

Lord Aspendale smiled grimly. “If I tolerate you, I sup- 
pose I must tolerate Jessie, too,” said he. 

“ I thought you would, sir. Well, and how goes life down 
at the Aspens?” — flinging himself carelessly into the chair 
toward which Lord Aspendale beckoned. “ Do you know. 
Uncle Laurence, when I get down here among the daisies and 
the white clover, it seems to me as if London and its whirl 
were all a dream, and 1 was a school-boy again?” 

Lord Aspendale looked kindly at the frank young face, with 
its clustering brown hair, and eyes of such a deep, velvety 
brown that you had to look twice to make sure that they were 
not black. 

“ Go to your room, Malcolm,” said he, “ and get ready for 
dinner. You have no time to lose.” 

“ So soon, Uncle Laurence?” 

“ Do you see the clock?” 

“ Very well, sir. Come, Jessie!” and whistling his dog to 
follow him, the young man nodded adieu to his host, and 
walked along the tesselated pavement of the hall without, 
springing up the marble staircase, three steps at a time, as if 
he were familiar with every nook and corner of the house. 

“ My old room, Birney?” said he to the butler. 

“ Your old room, Mr. Malcolm, of course,” responded the 
man. “ And there ain’t many days in the year as it ain’t 
ready for you, sir, no matter what time you was to stej) in 
upon us. ” 

.He looked approvingly after the tall, muscular figure and 
bright, handsome face of the young man, as he disappeared, 
muttering to himself, “ The Aspens would be a different sort 
of place if Mr. Malcolm could make up his mind to stay here 
always.” 

The dining-room at Wild Aspens was a stately apartment, 
with a floor of inlaid wood, a magnificent oriel window at the 
further end, in whose stained glass casements the western 
light was changed to amber and purple and glimmering blood- 


CLAIRE^S LOVE-LIFE. 45 

red, as it streamed in around a medallion head of Shakespeare, 
circled with rays-of gold, and an arched roof of oaken carv- 
ings. And when the dessert was set upon the table, and 
Birney closed the ruby velvet curtains, and lighted the wax 
candles in the silver candelabra, revealing the center-piece of 
fruit and liowers, he whispered to Malcolm Aspendale, “ Try 
the white grapes, sir; they’re the finest we’ve had out of the 
grapery since you girdled the White Chasselas vine with your 
pocket-knife in trying to graft it!” 

Malcolm burst out laughing. “ I must have been a trying 
young rascal in those days,” said he. “ Uncle Laurence, shall 
1 give you some of the pine-apple?” 

Lord Aspendale shook his head. “No, my boy,” said he. 
“ 1 do not care for foreign fruits now. Fill your glass, Mal- 
colm. I want to talk to you.” 

“ Now it’s coming,” said Malcolm. “ I knew there must 
be something especial in the wind. Uncle Laurence, or you 
never would have sent for me express. What is it? A re-‘ 
fractory horse to ride? or an heiress to marry, like the stern 
old uncle on the stage?” 

Lord Aspendale winced a little at the straightforward ques- 
tion, but still he smiled. 

“ You have guessed it, Malcolm,” said he. 

“ The horse, Uncle Laurence, or the heiress?” 

“ The heiress, of course.” 

“ By Jove, affairs are getting serious!” said Malcolm, set- 
ting down his wine-glass. “ You don’t really mean it, sir?” 

“ Malcolm,” said the old man, “ I have not often attempt- 
ed to pry into your private affairs, have I?” 

“ You are the best and most considerate of uncles!” cried 
out Malcolm, warmly. “ And I’ll maintain that against all 
the world.” 

“ And 1 hope you will believe that I do not do so now with- 
out good reason. Will you answer me one or two questions 
frankly?” 

“ Half a dozen, sir, if you please.” 

“ You have not allowed yourself to become in any way en- 
tangled?” said Lord Aspendale, leaning his elbows on the 
table, and looking intently into the frank, straight-featured 
face, with its laughing lips and surprised brown eyes. 

“ Entangled?” 

“ As to love affairs, I mean?” 

Malcolm folded his arms, and gazed up at the vaulted ceil- 
ing. 

“ I don’t remember being in love with any woman, Uncle 


4 G 


claire’s loye-lifE. 


Laurence, since the nurse-maid 1 had when 1 first went into 
knickerbockers — the pretty, black-eyed girl who rubbed my 
nose up the wrong way, and got rose -soap into my eyes when 
she washed me. 1 did love that girl — until she married the 
gardener and grew fat and blowsy.” 

“Nonsense, Malcolm!” 

“ Well, yes, sir; it does appear nonsensical now; doesn’t it? 
But I assure you I was very much in earnest in those days.” 

“ Well, listen, my boy. You are not in love with any one 
now?” 

“ No, Uncle Laurence.” He was tapping the grape-scissors 
softly against the side of a golden orange as he spoke. 

“You never met your far-away relatives, the Countess of 
Littleton and her daughter?” 

“ No, sir. You never mean me to marry a widow. Uncle 
Laurence?” 

“ Malcolm, do be reasonable. Who is talking about a 
•widow?” 

“You are, sir. The Dowager Countess of Littleton,” as- 
serted Malcolm. 

“No, 1 am not. 1 am talking of her daughter. Lady 
Lydia Grafton. ” 

“ Oh!” said Malcolm, with a subdued whistle. “ That’s 
the heiress, is it?” 

“ She is not an heiress; but she has a nice little inheritance 
of her own,” said Lord Aspendale. “ They have just re- 
turned from a year on the Continent. They are coming to 
the Aspens.” 

“ The plot thickens,” said Malcolm, tragically. “ Go on. 
Uncle Laurence; I am all attention.” 

“ And I want you to go up and bring them down,” added 
Lord Aspendale. 

“ Am I to marry her on the road. Uncle Laurence?” in- 
quired Malcolm, with an aspect of extreme artlessness, “ or is 
the ceremony to be performed in Hanover Square first?” 

“ Malcolm, don’t be a fool. You and Lydia Grafton are 
relatives, although in a distant degree; and I’ve an idea that 
it would be an excellent plan for you to unite your fortunes.” 
■ “Why wouldn’t my brother Eustace do as well. Uncle 
Laurence?” questioned Malcolm, solicitously. “ I’m poor 
enough, but Eustace is poorer still. Give him the first 
chance.” 

Lord Aspendale frowned a little. 

“ Malcolm,” said he, “ you do not seem to consider that 1 
am not intending this for a capital joke,” 


CLAIRE S LOVE-LIFE. 


47 


“ But, Uncle Laurence, suppose I should not like the young 
lady?” 

“ And suppose— which is still more likely— that you 

should t” 

“ Nor is it an entire impossibility that she should dislike 
me,” added Malcolm. 

“ I am willing to risk that,” said Lord Aspendale, laugh- 
ing. “ Look here, Malcolm! 1 have rather taken a fancy to 
this idea. I don’t often mount a hobby, but when 1 do, 1 
ride it with a will. I suppose it would have been a more 
diplomatic proceeding to bring you two together unexpected- 
ly, and trust to luck and chance for the rest. But that is not 
my method of doing things. I prefer to state my wishes plain- 
ly. Will you go up to London and escort these ladies down to 
the Aspens for me?” 

“ Of course. Uncle Laurence.” 

“Very well. That settles the question. I only ask that 
you will also bear in mind my other wishes.” 

“ Do you know. Uncle Laurence,” said the young man, his 
eyes sparkling with fun, “ that you are getting more and 
more like the stagey uncle?” 

“ Nonsense!” uttered Lord Aspendale. “ Will you have 
any more wine? No? Then suppose we go upstairs, and I 
will show you the engravings that came over from Vienna last 
week.” 

But when Lord Aspendale had retired to his room for the 
night, and Malcolm was smoking his cigar on the shores of 
the lake, where a full moon was softly beaming, he thought 
over their conversation at dessert with a curious sensation of 
shrinking aversion. 

“ The strangest of all the strange ideas which ever took pos- 
session of Uncle Laurence’s dear old brain,” said he, idly stir- 
ring the crystal surface of the lake with the ferrule of his 
walking-stick. “As if people were to fall in love with one 
another to order. But, after all, it’s. strange that, after look- 
ing forward all my life to mending my dilapidated fortunes 
by marrying an heiress, 1 should feel such an unaccountable 
dislike to this particular heiress that Uncle Laurence has 
hunted up. If she should be pretty, and if I should chance 
to take a fancy to her, and she to me! What nonsense all 
this is! And the air getting deucedly chill, and the clock at 
Stoke Aspen striking twelve. I’ll go in and deliver myself 
over soul and body to Morpheus. If 1 dream about the heir- 
ess — Lady Lydia, 1 think he called her — I’ll accept it as an 
omen that I am to go and escort her down, just as Uncle 


/ 




48 claire's love-life. 

Laurence has commanded. If I don't. I'll Jet the whole 
thing sublimely alone." 

And, accordingly, Malcolm Aspendale went to bed, and did 
dream of the heiress. 

“ That settles the matter," said he to himself, the next 
morning, as he was operating vigorously on his thick curly 
hair with a pair of ivory-backed brushes. “It is the finger 
of fate! I'll go up to London straightway, like little Dick 
Whittington, and abase myself before my unknown relatives." 

The London bound train was already at the Stoke Aspen 
station, belching forth fire and smoke, when the dog-cart 
from Wild Aspens dashed up to the platform, and Malcolm 
sprung breathlessly out, with a light traveling-case of Russia- 
leather and silver-plating in his hand. 

“ A narrow escape from being left behind," thought our 
hero, as he felt himself being pushed into the nearest carriage 
by a porter, who would not have taken so much trouble for 
any one who had not stepped out of the Wild Aspens carriage. 
“ All right, John! Steady there, at the mare’s head. She 
don’t half like those clouds of smoke, and small blame to 
" her!" 

“ Yes, Mr. Aspendale. Good-morning, sir," said the man, 
touching his hat with one hand, while with the other he hung 
stoutly on to the bit of the restive horse. And Malcolm set- 
tled himself back into a seat, murmuring a courteous word or 
two of apology to an elderly gentleman sitting opposite, over 
whose feet lie had perforce stumbled when he made his un- 
ceremonious entree. 

“ Sorry to inconvenience you, sir," said he with a good- 
humored smile; “ but I was only too glad to effect an entrance 
on any terms." 

“ Sir, 1 beg that you will not mention it," said the old gen- 
tleman, looking hard at him. And then Malcolm became 
aware that he was a stout, rubicund personage, with iron-gray 
hair, a stiff mustache of the same color, and pleasant gray 
eyes that penetrated one through and through, like double- 
pointed arrows. “ Did I understand your man," he added, 
“ to mention the name of Aspendale?" 

“ That is my name," said Malcolm, somewhat surprised at 
this unusual question. 

“ Then, sir," said the old gentleman, holding out a trimly 
gloved hand, “ we must be friends." 

Aspendale hesitated a little. Vague recollectioTis rushed 
into his mind of stories he had read and heard, of respectable- 
looking maniacs who had contrived to elude the vigilance of 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


49 


their keepers, and lock themselves into railway carriages with 
unsuspecting travelers. The elderly stranger noticed his in- 
voluntary recoiling movement, and smiled. 

“ You are surprised,” said he. “ Well, 1 do not wonder at 
it. But your face struck upon me familiarly when 1 first saw 
it; and your name, as uttered by your groom, settled the ques- 
tion in my mind. You must be the son of Arthur Aspendale, 
of Langbridge, near Manchester?” 

“ I am,” admitted Malcolm, wondering more and more. 

The old gentleman drew out a card-case, and formally pre- 
sented a card. 

“ Then,” said he, “ I have the pleasure of introducing my- 
self to you as one of your father’s best and oldest friends — 
Miles Carew. You may have heard him speak of me?” 

“ My father died when 1 was but a lad, absent at boarding- 
school,” said Malcolm. “ But the name is familiar to me.” 

“ True — true,” nodded Mr. Carew. “ One does not always 
make allowance for the flight of years. I am a banker, sir, 
of the well-known London house of Carew & Co.” 

“ I have heard of it,” said Malcolm Aspendale, who had a 
vague idea that Carew & Co. were a mine of gold in 'them- 
selves — a Croesus company, who ruled the financial tides of 
the world. 

“ I am tolerably well to do now,” said thejdd gentleman; 
“ but there was a time, Mr. Aspendale, when 1 was poor and 
desolate. It was then that your father was my friend, and 
helped me, not only with advice, which comes cheap, but with 
a substantial and well-timed loan. I heard of his death in 
Vienna, where I have been living for some time, managing 
our branch there, and it struck me to the heart. I have been 
but a few months in England, and I count it as one of my 
greatest pieces of good luck thus to have met his son.” 

He spoke earnestly, and Malcolm thanked him in the same 
spirit. 

“ And 1 want you to understand, Mr. Aspendale,” added 
Mr. Carew, “ that' I am yet, morally speaking, deeply in your 
father’s debt; and, if I can serve you in any way— in any 
way , whatsoever,” he repeated, emphatically, “ I shall esteem 
it a favor to be called upon. ” 

And then Mr. Carew unfolded his newspaper, and began to 
read. 

“ Can I set you down anywhere?” he asked, when they 
alighted at the London station. “I am going to No, — 
Grosvenor Square.” 

Malcolm opened his handsome eyes in genuine surprise. 


50 claire’s loye-life. 

“ To No. — Grosvenor Square?” said he. “ To Lady Little- 
ton’s?” 

“Yes.” 

“ TVhy, that is the precise place to which I was going,” said 
Aspendale. 

“ I am going to my daughter, who is visiting Lady Lydia 
Grafton,” said Mr. Carew. 

“ And I was about to pay my respects to Lady Littleton 
and her daughter, who are distant relatives of mine,” said 
Malcolm, feeling that some explanation was due. 

“ Good!” said Mr. Carew. “ Things couldn’t have hap- 
pened more harmoniously. Pray enter the carriage, Mr. As- 
pendale. Drive on, Martin.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

GIRL CONFIDENCES. 

Lady Lydia Grafton received Miss Colonsay with a noisy 
and enthusiastic welcome when she returned to Grosvenor 
Square that evening. 

“ Now, come to my room at once,” said she. “ Don’t look 
around so anxiously; your duties as dame de compagnie are 
not to commence until to-morrow morning. Mamma’s maid 
is dressing her for dinner, now, and you are to come with 
me.” 

And Claire found herself drawn, perforce, into a pretty 
boudoir hung with French chintz, all. birds, and bees, and 
butterflies, where there was a stand of pale-green ferns, a 
scarlet parroquet swinging from an ivory ring, a work-box, 
and an open case of water-colors. There was not a great deal 
of order there; in fact, order was not one of the virtues for 
which Lady Lydia Grafton stood in danger of being canonized; 
but everything was very snug and cozy; and in front of the 
lire, with her folded arms resting on the chintz-draped man- 
tel, and the long trailing folds of her dead-white silk dress 
resting on the carpet, stood a tall and lovely girl of twenty 
years old — a girl with magnificent golden hair twisted in a 
loose coil at the back of her neck, and transfixed by a dia- 
mond-studded arrow, and great blue eyes which seemed to 
glisten and grow dark at every breath she d»rew. She turned 
slowly — all her actions were slow and graceful — as the door 
opened, and held out both her hands to Claire Colonsay. 

“ Dearest Claire,” said she, “ Lydia has told me all about 
it. 1 am so glad to see you again.” 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 51 

44 Miss Carew!” hesitated Claire, scarcely 'knowing what to 
say. 

“ Not that/’ said the beautiful blonde, with a slight, eva- 
sive motion of the hand, “ Katherine — or Kate, as you used 
to call me. Dear, you haven’t forgotten our old school ways, 
have you?” 

Claire burst into tears. There was something in those soft, 
caressing words of welcome, in the luxuries that surrounded 
her, the scent of hot-house flowers, and the mossy pile of the 
carpet under her feet, that presented an almost painful con- 
trast to her mother’s shrill objurgations and the poverty- 
stricken hardness of Densly Place. Katherine Carew said 
nothing; she only stood and smiled on Claire like some divine- 
ly fair and gracious goddess. It was her way, and there was 
something magnetically soothing about it. 

“ Oh, goodness me! don’t cry!” said Lady Lydia, in com- 
ical consternation. “ What is there to cry about? Come, take 
off your things, and let us have a good look at you!” 

Claire dashed away her tears with a smile. 

“ It was only for a moment. Lady Lydia,” said she. “ It 
shall not occur again, believe me.” 

“ Because I don’t like tears,” said Lady Lydia. “Iam 
like a man. 1 hate tears, and I’ve no patience with a scene. 
Come now, girls, let’s all go down into the drawing-room. 
It will be at least half an hour before mamma is ready for 
dinner, and I like to sit on the rug and gossip between day- 
light and dark.” 

“ Are you not going to dress for dinner?” asked Miss 
Carew. 

“ Dress!” repeated Lady Lydia, with a toss of her tawny 
mane of half-crimpled hair. “Am 1 not dressed already? 
There is to be no one but the little Mopsey and you two girls, 
and what should 1 spend an hour in hanging myself in silk 
and pearls for? It’s a deal too much trouble.” 

“ I have dressed,” remonstrated Katherine Carew, gently. 

“ Oh, but everybody can’t go through the world Cleopatra- 
fashion like you,' Beauty,” said Lady Lydia, putting out her 
hand to stroke down the luminous folds of Miss Carew’s white 
silk. “ It’s your business to be beautiful and serene, and 
perfectly dressed. I’m quite another person. Come, I say.” 

And, scarcely allowing Claire time to arrange the soft 
braids of her chestnut-brown hair, she led the way down into 
the drawing-room, where the curtains were drawn, the gas 
lighted behind ground glass shades, and a cheerful fire blazing 
on the hearth. 


52 


CLAIRE *S LOVE-LIFE. 


Miss Carew sunk gracefully into a satin-puffed easy-chair at 
the left of the fire, holding up an embroidered screen between 
the blaze and her own perfect complexion. Claire seated her- 
self opposite, beside a table strewn with photographs and en- 
gravings, and Lady Lydia sat prone on the tufted rug, hug- 
ging her knees, school-girl fashion, and winking her eyes at 
the blaze, as she chattered away. 

“Now, girls/’ said she, “here’s a pretty state of things! 
Neither of you with a love-secret to tell me.” 

Katherine Carew smiled languidly. “ My dear Lydia,” 
said she, “ you forget that it is scarcely a year since we left 
boarding-school.” 

“ A year is a long time,” said Lady Lydia, nodding at the 
fire. “ Twelve months — fifty- two weeks — three hundred and 
sixty-five days. A good many things may happen in a year. 
Tell me truly, Beauty ” — laying her hand on Katherine’s 
wrist, where a wide bar of dead gold was fastened with a 
gleaming buckle of diamonds — “ haven’t you had a single 
lover? Honor bright, now!” 

Miss Carew looked down into Lady Lydia’s eager, upturned 
face, with an amused expression. 

“ Lover!” said she; “ no, not one. Suitors — yes, half a 
dozen.” 

“ Tell me about them,” said Lady Lydia, greedily. 

“ Nonsense!” returned Miss Carew. “ They are not worth 
the time I should spend in enumerating their names. An at- 
tache at the Viennese Embassy; a penniless compte, in Paris, 
who thought to mend his threadbare fortunes with some of 
the rich American banker’s money; two or three chevaliers 
des fortunes. My dear, if they were all ground up together in 
a mill, it would be difficult to reconstruct one real, genuine 
man out of their ashes!” 

“ And you, Claire?” said Lady Lydia. 

Miss Colonsay shook her head. 

“ Nay,” said she, “ what can you expect from a girl who 
has been buried alive in a moldy old French chateau, with an 
ill-tempered invalid and two children?” 

“ Then I’ve got the start of both of you!” cried Lady 
Lydia, clapping her dimpled white hands gleefully. “ Think 
of that, now! There 9 s a triumph! I, with my freckled face, 
and pug nose, and red hair, to get a real, live lover before 
either of you first-class beauties!” 

“ A lover!” said Claire, interested in spite of herself. 

“Yes,” nodded Lady Lydia. “A lover, and a young 


• ciaire's love-life. 5 3 

lover, too, and a handsome one! And heir apparent to a title! 
What do you think of that V 9 

And she looked radiantly from one to the other of her com- 
panions. 

“ And you never told me, Lydia," said Miss Carew, in ac- 
cents of mild reproach. 

" Because I didn't know myself, Beauty," eagerly ex- 
plained Lady Lydia. “ His friend, or uncle, or guardian, or 
something or other, has proposed for me by proxy — regular 
royal princess fashion, you know!" 

And Lady Lydia drew up her feet under her, and rocked 
triumphantly back and forth, as she observed the effect that 
her revelation had produced on her friends. 

“ Isn't it fun?" said she, joyously. 

“ And have you accepted him?" asked Miss Colonsay. 

“ Well, no," said Lady Lydia; “ I haven't quite made up 
my mind." 

" Not made up your mind? Why, you say yourself that he 
is young and handsome, and heir to an old name." 

“ Oh, yes!" said Lady Lydia, " all that is true enough; but 
still, I mayn't like him when I see him." 

Katherine Carew fixed her large, violet-dark eyes on Lady 
Lydia's face in a sort of surprise. 

"When you see him?" repeated she. 

" Because," fluently explained Lady Lydia, " I've never 
set eyes on him yet." 

She burst out laughing, as she sat there; her face turned to 
a pale scarlet by the fire, from which she was too indolent to 
move back, her hair hanging in a disordered mass down her 
back, and both hands still clasped tightly about her knees. 

" Odd, isn't it?" said she, " when one comes to think about 
it. But still, he is a lover!" 

" But what is his name?" asked Claire. 

" His name? Oh, haven't 1 told you? That's the best 
part of it; his name is — " 

And at the self-same instant the footman, flinging open the 
drawing-room door, announced in a stentorian voice: 

" Mr. Aspendale!" 

Lady Lydia scrambled to her feet, with her face a deeper 
scarlet than ever, and mechanically put her hand up to her 
loosely hanging hair. 

“ Good gracious!" cried she; “ can't I hide away under 
the sofa, or somewhere?" 

But there was no time for the execution of any such hur- 
riedly devised plan. Malcolm Aspendale followed so prompt- 


54 


claire’s love- life. 


Iy upon his introduction that she had only the alternative of 
advancing, in great confusion, to welcome him. 

“ Lady Lydia Grafton?” He spoke in very material doubt 
as to whether this was the Earl of Littleton’s daughter or her 
maid. 

“ Yes,” said Lady Lydia. “ That is — I believe so.” 

And then she broke out into an uncontrollable peal of 
laughter. 

“ I must look a pretty figure,” said she. “ But 1 am very 
happy to see you, Mr. Aspendale, for all that. Allow me to 
present you to my friends. Miss Oolonsay and Miss Carew. 
Ah, there is Mr. Carew; your father, Katherine.” 

And in the confused tableau that followed, one impression 
alone remained distinct and ineradicable upon the retina of 
Mr. Aspendale’s mind’s eye — Katherine Carew’s tall and 
queenly figure, with the folds of dead-white silk falling around 
it, the golden braids'of hair coiled around, her head, and the 
serene loveliness of her dark limpid eyes. 

If Lord Aspendale had wanted his young cousin to fall in 
love with Lady Lydia Grafton he had most assuredly selected 
an unfortunate season for their first introduction. The peer’s 
daughter looked like a milkmaid, and an ungraceful specimen 
of the variety at that. Miss Carew looked like a princess. 
And first impressions are so lasting. 

But Lady Littleton came down presently, and dinner was 
announced; and the plan for visiting Wild Aspens was 
broached by Mr. Aspendale himself, who was blessedly un- 
conscious of the fact that he had been already offered, as it 
were, for sale, in the matrimonial market. 

“ Oh, mamma, let us go!” cried Lady Lydia. “ Think 
how lovely Wild Aspens would be on a spring day like this!” 

“ Well, dear,” said Lady Littleton, placidly, “ let it be as 
you wish!” 

“ But Kate and Claire must go too!” pleaded Lady Lydia. 

“Of course!” Malcolm answered, promptly. “ My uncle 
would be charmed to welcome any guests that you may choose 
to name.” 

And so it was settled that they were to go down to Wild 
Aspens the next day, thereby anticipating their original plans 
by about a week. 

“ But it will be so nice to travel down with my lover,” said 
Lady Lydia to Claire when they were in the seclusion of their 
own room, brushing out their hair before retiring to rest. 
“ Isn’t he handsome?” 

** Very!” said Claire, almost enviously. 


clairf/s loye-life. 


55 


“ Never mind, dear/’ said Lady Lydia, “ you shall be my 
bride-maid, and the first groomsman shall fall over head and 
ears in love with you. I don’t quite know who he is to be 
yet, but some one very nice and distingue . But, oh! Claire, 
hasn’t he delicious dark eyes?” 

“ Who? the first groomsman?” 

“ No, Miss Impertinent,” retorted Lady Lydia, with a 
laugh; “ the bridegroom.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

LOTTY. 

Carew Court, at Richmond, was by no means so preten- 
tious a place as Wild Aspens. It lacked the prestige of age 
and the advantages of historic record; but it was one of those 
luxurious country seats which are erected in substantial fash- 
ion by rich men who care less for style than comforts; a red- 
brick mansion, with brown-stone facings and trimmings, 
standing in the midst of lovely gardens and undulations of 
ciose-cut lawn. Mr. Carew had built it himself, after the 
most approved model, and filled it with every luxury, occa- 
sionally visiting it, during the intervals of his long residence 
abroad, and furnishing it with a special eye to Katherine’s 
tastes and fancies. There were boudoirs draped in blue and 
gold; magnificent drawing-rooms, whose floors were covered 
with moquette carpets, woven in France to suit the exact size 
of the apartments; a music-room, with a superb arched roof 
and floor of inlaid foreign woods; a small but perfect picture- 
gallery, a long corridor, with rows of statues on either side, 
and a frescoed roof overhead, and a library which was the 
envy of half the scholars of the neighborhood. While slop- 
ing away to the south, where the beautiful Thames closed up 
the view with its sheet of glimmering blue, were rose gardens, 
shady wildernesses, devoted entirely to the cultivation of rare 
ferns, and superbly appointed conservatories, whose domes of 
crystal rose out of the surrounding trees like a glimpse of the 
minarets of some eastern city. And now that there was an im- 
mediate prospect of the master of all this fair domain coming, 
with his only child, to take personal possession of the Court, 
all the servants were busy, upholsterers were in possession of 
the spacious suites, and decorators were at work under the 
supervision of an artist from London, who wore diamond 
studs and a black velvet coat, orer whose collar his long hair 
streamed picturesquely, and whose charges per diem w r ere 


50 


CLAIRE'S LOVE-LIFE. 


something appalling. But it was Mr. Carew's whim, and 
he could afford to pay roundly for it. 

At the end of a long, glittering line of graperies and forc- 
ing-houses, which extended in a southerly direction, stood a 
little one-storied edifice, which looked not unlike a postcript 
to the rest. It rejoiced in a steep Gothic roof, lozenge-paned 
windows, overgrown with jasmine, ivy and clinging vines, a 
tiny stone doorstep, on either side of which was trailed a 
lovely Lamarque rose, just bursting into bud and leaf, and a 
brown thrush in the window, singing as if his throat were a 
tiny clarionet all lined with silver. And in this cottage lived 
John Mackenzie, the head gardener, and his wife Phillis. 

Mackenzie had just come in from a round through the con- 
servatories and hot-houses, during which he had ascertained 
satisfactorily that all was going on right in the hands of his 
underlings, and was now refreshing his mind with a glance — 
through a pair of immense silver-bowed spectacles— at a 
week-old London paper. Mrs. Mackenzie, a sharp-nosed lit- 
tle woman, with preternatu rally bright eyes, lips compressed 
to a mere thread, and a projecting chin, was scouring away 
at a glittering tin saucepan at a table near by. Suddenly 
she glanced up, and saw on the red-brick floor something that 
bore a remote resemblance to Robinson Crusoe^s world-re- 
nowned “ footprint on. the sand." 

“ Oh, dear !” said Mrs. Mackenzie; “ there it is again!" 

“ There is what, my dear?" said Mr. Mackenzie, absently, 
as he spelled out the editorial paragraphs. 

“ Your feet," said Mrs. Mackenzie. 

The head gardener gave a bewildered glance at the two pedal 
extremities which occupied either side of the glistening brass 
fender. 

“ Anything wrong about my feet, my dear?" said he. 

“ It ain't your feet," groaned Mrs. Mackenzie. “ It's 
them dusty tracks they've made on my red-brick floor, as I've 
scoured a'ready until I've got the rheumatiz in my knees so 
as I can't hardly hobble!" 

“ Is that all?" said the gardener. “ You can brush it up 
again easy enough." 

“Brush it up!" repeated Mrs. Mackenzie, in a shrill 
falsetto. “Good Lord deliver us! That's just all a man 
knows about work! It's brush, brush, and it's clean, clean, 
and it's scrub, scrub, from morning till night. And there 
ain't no use tryin' to be decent, with a man litterin' up things 
as fast as you tidy 'em! There’s your nasty old pipe on the 
dresser, and your hat on a chair, and youi muffler on the 


Claire’s love-life. 


57 


floor, and your marks, track, track, all over the floor! 
Goodness knows! it would be easy enough to find you , if you 
was a Babe in the Wood! And the more I talk, and beg, and 
implore, the more it don’t do any good. It does seem as if 
men took delight in just tryin’ how much work they can make 
for a woman — and me just ready to drop with the wash I’ve 
turned off this morning!” 

“ Well, whose fault is it?” demanded John Mackenzie, 
hopelessly looking up and down the columns of the newspaper 
for his lost place. “ I’m willin’ to hire the washin’ done for 
you, ain’t 1?” 

“Yes, and you’re willin’ to go at a hand gallop to the poor- 
house, too, if I’d let you.” retorted his wife, scouring away at 
the saucepan, as if she would scour through it. “ And a 
pretty pass you’d ha- come to, if 1 didn’t slave myself to 
death, a-tryin’ to make both ends meet. But when I’m dead 
and gone — Where are you goin’ now, John Mackenzie?” 

For her better half had risen, and was making toward the 
door. 

“ Out to the scullery steps.” 

“ What for, in the name of common sense?” screamed Mrs. 
Mackenzie. 

“ To try and see if I can’t read my paper in peace!” 

“ Yes, that’s just like you,” said Mrs. Mackenzie. “ Let 
a woman toil and drudge by herself all day, and the minute 
she gets a chance to open her lips to somebody, away you 
goes, for fear you should hear the sound of her voice. That’s 
always the way! I don’t see what in creation possessed me to 
get married — I was a deal better off when 1 worked at dress- 
making over the chandler’s shop in Manchester, and sat down 
in peace and quietness when my day’s work was over!” 

But the last part of this soliloquy was nipped abruptly in 
the bud by the slamming of the scullery door. Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie rolled her eyes ceilingward. 

“ Mackenzie’s temper again,” said she. “ Evening chapel 
don’t do him a bit of good! I’ll have to get Brother Burton- 
to make it a subject of special prayer. Thank Providence, 1 
always had a good temper! Who’s that, I wonder?” as a 
shadow, passing the lozenge-paned casement, cast its reflec- 
tion on the floor. “ Not Mrs. Bickerstafi, come to tea a’ready, 
and the clock not struck three?” 

And she hurried to the door, secretly anathematizing the 
unexpected promptitude of the village gossip she had expect- 
ed to drink tea with her that evening. 

But it was not the portly figure and florid face of the 


58 


claire’s loye-ltfe. 


baker’s wife that presented itself at the door as she opened 
it, but a slight, pretty girl, of scarcely twenty, with large 
dark eyes, hair curling in black silky rings about her fore- 
head, and an innocent, dimpled face, almost as childlike as 
that of the sleeping babe she carried in her arms. She was 
dressed in a faded print gown, darned and mended, and bear- 
ing the impress of hard service, a gray woolen shawl, and a 
straw hat, whose ribbons were discolored by sun and shower. 
But the baby, whose rosebud face was pressed against her 
breast, had the rosy beauty of an infant cherub, with softly 
flushed cheeks, long dark lashes, and lips apart, like coral. 

Mrs. Mackenzie recoiled, with both hands lifted. 

“ My goodness me!” she exclaimed, “it ain’t never you, 
Charlotte Corey!” 

The girl burst into tears, as she sunk down on a chair close 
to the door. 

“ Yes, it’s me, Aunt Phillis,” said she. “ And 1 only wish 
1 was dead and buried!” 

“Humph!” commented Mrs. Mackenzie, sourly. “If 
wishes were horses, beggars would ride. But I s’pose, now 
you’re here, you’ll have to takeoff your things and drink a 
cup of tea. Is this your child?” 

“ l r es,” with a smile sparkling through the tear-drops, as 
she folded back the little worsted hood, and looked down upon 
the fair, pure face. “ Isn’t he lovely. Aunt Phillis? Mam- 
ma’s darling!” burying her face in his plump neck. “But 
you should see him laugh! And his eyes. Aunt Phillis— he 
has got the sweetest eyes in all the world !” 

“Humph!” said Mrs. Mackenzie. “And where’s your 
husband? Kenrick, they called him, didn’t they?” 

“Gone!” The light died out of the sweet girlish face 
again, leaving it cold and white, with a certain look of terror 
about the eyes. 

“ Gone? You don’t mean that he has left you?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Gone where?” 

“I don’t quite know,” said the girl, in a low voice. “ Across 
seas. Somewhere he’ll never come back from.” 

“ Not— transported!” Mrs. Mackenzie’s voice fell to a 
sepulchral whisper at the last word. 

“Yes, transported,” said the young woman. “ Now you 
know it all. And please, please don’t ask me anything more 
about it.” 

“ Don’t be afeard,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, with a toss of 
her head, which was decorated in curl-papers. “ ’Tain’t so 


claire's love-life. 


59 


much to the family credit that I need be askin' questions. 
But you’ll please to remember, Charlotte Corey, as I always 
told you Victor Kenrick wouldn't come to no good. You 
had your own way, and now I hope you're satisfied. How 
old is the child?" 

“ A year and a half next week," with the same indescriba- 
ble softening of eye and feature. “ And he has six teeth." 

“Humph!" said Mrs. Mackenzie. “It's most a pity he 
didn't die, ain't it?" 

“ Die!" echoed Charlotte, clasping the little form to her 
heart. “My baby die! Oh, Aunt Phillis, he's the only 
comfort I have left in all the wide world. 1 couldn’t live 
without little Johnnie!" 

Mrs. Mackenzie shrugged her shoulders, and went on with 
her occupation of adjusting the tea-things on a little round 
table — old-fashioned block-tin, willow pattern crockery, and 
home-spun linen that was as white as snow, and smelled faint- 
ly of dried lavender and rose leaves. 

“ And where are you going now?" said she. 

“ Nowhere," said Charlotte, rocking her baby up and down 
in her arms, as he showed symptoms of waking. “ I came 
here because I had no other place to go to. I thought maybe 
you could help me." 

“ Me help you!" screamed, Mrs. Mackenzie. “ Well, I 
never! Just as if it wasn’t all I could do to help myself!" 

“ I want to get a place," said Charlotte, her dark, mourn- 
ful eyes fixed on her aunt's hard face. “ A place where 1 can 
earn a bit." 

“ Lord help you, child!" said Mrs. Mackenzie, “and who 
do you s’pose will take you in with this big boy?" 

‘‘ 1 could hire him boarded out, if 1 got a place," said 
Charlotte, eagerly. “ The keep of a child like this wouldn't 
be but a trifle— and we shall starve else. 1 must get a place. 
Aunt Phillis!" 

Mrs. Mackenzie paused in slicing cheese. 

“ The housekeeper up at the grand house wants a young 
woman to help about the sewing," said she. “ She told me 
so only yesterday." 

Charlotte involuntarily started from her seat. 

“ Oh, Aunt Phillis," said she, “do you think / could get 
ihe situation? Would you speak a good word for me. Aunt 
Phillis?" 

“ You might,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, slowly, “ if I told her 
you was 'my niece and a young woman as could be depended 


60 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


on. But it ain’t likely as Mrs. Arbuckle would want to hire 
the wife of a man as was transported across seas.” 

“ Say my husband is dead,” cried out Charlotte. “ And so 
he is, God knows — dead to me !” 

“ Then there’s the baby,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, sourly re- 
garding the little rosy child, who was by this time nestled into 
an impromptu bed formed by his mother’s shawl on a settle. 

'Charlotte bent forward to kiss him. 

“ Aunt Phillis,” said she, hesitatingly, “ couldn’t you keep 
him? Whatever wages 1 earned I’d pay you half for his keep, 
and be glad and thankful into the bargain. And then 1 could 
slip down of an evening once in awhile and see him. Oh, 
Aunt Phillis, couldn’t you?” 

Mrs. Mackenzie’s cold gray eyes glistened. She hated chil- 
dren, but she idolized money; and here was a chance to obtain 
some on comparatively easy terms. 

“ I don’t mind tryin’ it,” said she. “ Does he cry much?” 

“ Oh, scarcely ever,” cried Charlotte. “ He’s the best lit- 
tle baby in the world — bless his sweet heart! He’ll lie all day 
and laugh and coo, if you give him an apple or a bright bit 
of ribbon to play with. Look at him. Aunt Phillis, now he’s 
waking up! See him laugh! Did you ever see such bright 
eyes?” 

And catching him up in her arms, Charlotte Kenriek burst 
out into a torrent of loving inarticulate sounds, as she show- 
ered kisses upon the lips, cheek, and brow of the smiling in- 
fant. 

“He’ll miss me a little just at first. Aunt Phillis,” she 
said, with a quivering lip and eyes suffused with sudden tears. 
“ It’s only natural, you know; he’s got only me in all the 
world. But he’ll soon get used to you — oh, you don’t know 
how good he is!” 

“ 1 reckon babies i3 mostly alike,” said Mrs. Mackenzie. 
“I sha’n’t cosset him much, but you needn’t be afraid but 
that he’ll get food and drink and care enough. It’s a great 
pity you’re tied down with a great child like that.” 

“ Oh, Aunt Phillis,” faltered the girl, “ I should have died 
long ago if it hadn’t been for Johnnie.” 

“ Well,” pondered Mrs. Mackenzie to herself, as she dis- 
appeared into the little pantry in search of the brown loaf, 
“ there is scarlet fever, and measles, and whooping-cough to 
come, and a many other ailments; and I’ve heard the doctor 
say that six babies out of seven dies afore their third year. 
And it would be the best thing as could happen to Lotty, if 
only she could be brought to believe it.” 


CLAIRE'S LOVE -LIFE. 


61 


‘‘Look, Aunt Phillis, look!" said Lotfcy, her whole face 
radiant, as the gardener's wife reappeared; “ I do believe he 
knows you already. He's laughing at you! See his dimples, 
and the little white teeth, like pearls!" 

“ Humph!" snorted Mrs. Mackenzie. “ There ain't many 
folks in the world as laughs to see me /" 

Which was gospel truth. But little Johnnie, in the exuber- 
ance of his infantine joyousness, chuckled and crowed and 
kicked in his mother's arms, as if grim Aunt Mackenzie was 
the most gracious of created beings. 

He was a royally handsome child, with large eyes, long and 
almond-shaped, whose hazel light was shaded by long fringed 
lashes, golden lings of flossy hair curling all over his head, 
and cheeks of peachy bloom. And Lotty Kenrick had ample 
excuse for the maternal pride with which she viewed him, 
dancing and crowing in her lap. 

“ He feels his feet already. Aunt Phillis," said she, her own 
- pretty hair disordered by the clutch of the dimpled fingers, 
her eyes shining happiness. “ Only see how he jumps!" 

“Feels his feet, indeed!" said Mrs. Mackenzie. “He'd 
feel 'em often enough if 1 had the charge of him. I don't 
see no sense in lugging around a great, hearty child like that! 
And now set down and take a bite and swallow a sup of tea." 

But Lotty eat and drank with but small appetite. Her 
aunt observed her silently, and at length rose up. 

“'Are you through?" said she. “ Well, then, get your 
things on, and we'll go up at once to the Court." 

“ To the Court!" Lotty vaguely repeated. 

“ To see about that there situation as I told you about," 
nodded Mrs. Mackenzie. “ Do you want to wait until some 
one'else has snapped it up?" 

“ But Johnnie? What shall 1 do with Johnnie?" faltered 
the young mother, hurriedly beginning to tie on the child’s 
worsted cap again. But Mrs. Mackenzie snatched it uncere- 
moniously out of her hands. 

“Why, leave him here, of course," said she. “ You ain’t 
going to present yourself up at the grand house with a child 
in your arms, are you? Not unless you want to lose the 
place. I sha'n't let on a word about Kenrick nor the child. 
I shall tell 'em you're my niece, Lotty Corey, as I can recom- 
mend honest and willing, and handy with the needle. And if 
any one asks me any questions about the boy, 1 shall tell 'em 
he's an orphan as I've took in to mind, for a distant relation. 
And mind, Lotty, as you sticks to the same story," 


62 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


“ But ” — with a terrified glance over her shoulder — “ you’ll 
not leave him alone here?” 

“And why not, I’d like to know?” screamed the gar- 
dener’s wife. “ Who’s to harm him, and me with the front- 
door key safe in my pocket, and Mackenzie just out there in 
the scullery?” 

“ But he’ll be frightened, maybe, and cry.” 

“No, he won’t!” boldly asserted Mrs. Mackenzie. “And 
if he does, where’s the harm? It’ll open his lungs, and when 
he gets tired of it he’ll leave off as easy and natural as all the 
world. I’ll just step out and tell Mackenzie I’m going up to 
the Court, and then we’ll go.” 

But when she reached the quiet little scullery, John Mac- 
kenzie was fast asleep, with the newspaper over his face. 

“ He’s pretty safe to sleep an hour, now,” said she to her- 
self. “ I can get back easy enough before he wakes.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

“GOOD-BYE, JOHNNIE.” 

As Mrs. Mackenzie bustled out, Lotty Kenrick knelt down 
oeside the low settle where the child lay, laughing and crow- 
ing, his bright eyes fixed intently on the thrush in its wooden 
cage, and his little hands reaching out as if to grasp at the 
sunbeams that streamed in above it. 

“ Good-bye, Johnnie, my little Johnnie!” she whispered, 
resolutely choking back her tears, and pressing soft mother- 
kisses on the velvet cheek; “ you won’t think hard if mamma 
doesn’t come back to you, Johnnie, will you? It’s for bread, 
darling, and clothes, and a bit of money toward your school- 
ing when you’re older, Johnnie. And mamma will come to 
see her treasure now and then, Johnnie; and — and — ” 

But here a great burst of tears seemed to impede her utter- 
ance, a lump, rose into her throat, and pressing both hands 
before her eyes, she hurried, sobbing, out into the afternoon 
sunshine, not daring to linger for another word or look. 

“ You’ll be good to baby, Aunt Phillis; you’ll be good to 
him!” she wailed, clutching at the arm of the gardener’s wife, 
who just then joined her, in a decent black bonnet and shawl, 
with the front-door key hanging on her forefinger. 

“Bless the child, what is the use of making such a rout 
about it?” said Mrs. Mackenzie, impatiently. “ Good to 
him — of course I shall be good to him. I ain’t one of them 
Welsh giants, be 1, as live by eating little children? And 
now, dry your face, Lotty, and push them fly-away curls out 


claire’s love- life. 


63 


of your eyes. I should think you might brush ’em straight 
like other folks.” 

“ They won’t come straight, Aunt Phillis,” said Lotty, 
meekly. “ I’ve tried it many a time. They will curl.” 

“ Well, push ’em back, anyhow,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, 
screwing up her lips disapprovingly; “ and don’t look as if 
you hadn’t a friend in the world. That ain’t no way to get a 
fine place.” 

“ If 1 did look so, it would be no more than I felt,” flashed 
out poor Lotty, momentarily goaded beyond endurance; “for 
if it wasn’t for dear little Johnnie, 1 should be friendless!” 

“ That’s gratitude!” said Mrs. Mackenzie, rolling her eyes 
up. “ That’s pretty talk to your own aunt, as is doin’ her 
best, and puttin’ herself out beyond everything to try and get 
you a decent situation, so as you needn’t be a beggar in the 
streets from door to door.” 

“ Please forgive me. Aunt Phillis,” said Lotty, penitently; 
“ I shouldn’t have said what 1 did. I never meant it; but 
when one is hunted, and driven, and tortured like I am, they 
don’t stop to measure their words. Hush! what was that?” 

It was only one of the pet deer, wandered out of the park 
bounderies, which had darted through a clump of shrubbery 
close by; but Lotty vanished from her aunt’s side like a sheet 
of summer lightning which is here one instant and gone the 
next. 

“Lotty!” shrilly cried out the dame. “Char -lotte ! 
What’s the matter? Where are you going? Save us and bless 
us!”— as she stood still in the middle of the path, in sore per- 
plexity — “ I do believe her troubles has affected her reason!” 

But in a second Lotty came back, panting and out of breath, 
with rosy lips apart and cheeks flushed scarlet. 

“ Child,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, “ where have, you been?”. 

“ I just ran back a minute, aunt,” said the girl, “ to see if 
Johnnie was quiet.” 

“ Grant me patience!” enunciated Mrs. Mackenzie, hold- 
ing up both hands, door-key and all. 

“ I peeped through the window, and there he lay, smiling 
and cooing at the thrush, like a little angel,” said Lotty, 
eagerly. “ Oh, I am so glad he is good! And yet— and yet 
it hurts me here” — pressing her hand on her heart — “to 
think he can be so happy without his mother.” 

Astonishment and disgust had fairly taken away Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie’s utterance for the nonce; She stalked along in indig- 
nant silence, and Lotty walked by her side, occasionally vent- 


(14 


claire's love-life. 


uring a timid glance at the sharp visage, with its compressed 
lips and myriad of tiny wrinkles around mouth and eyes. 

“Will she be good to Johnnie?" she asked herself, with 
trembling doubts and fears. “ Oh, my baby! my baby! if 1 
could only shelter you always within my own love! But 1 
can not. God help me, I can not." 

Thus, palpitating and uncertain, she was ushered into the 
awful presence of Mrs. Arbuckle, the housekeeper, at Carew 
Court, a tall and stately old lady, in a brocaded silk gown, 
with a mosaic brooch, nearly the size of a tea-plate, at* her 
throat, and a ponderous gold watch hanging at her side. She 
happened, as good luck would have it, to be in a favorable 
humor that afternoon, and viewed Lotty with a gracious eye. 

“Ah!" said Mrs. Arbuckle. “Hem! She seems like a 
very respectable young person, this niece of yours, Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie!" 

“ 1 can recommend her, ma’am, in every respect," said 
Mrs. Mackenzie, with a courtesy. 

“ Only," added the old lady, with as near an approach to a 
smile as she ever allowed her dignified features to assume, 
“ there is one drawback— she is almost too pretty!" 

Lotty’s lovely eyes fell, and the faint rose tint mounted to 
the very roots of the silken rings of hair to which Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie had taken such exception. 

“Well, ma’am," simpered Mrs. Mackenzie, “1 don’t 
know as that can exactly be called a fault /" 

“Ah! to be sure," said Mrs. Arbuckle, patting Lotty’s 
cheek. “ Only you know there’s the upper footman and the 
other men about the place, and I’m not one to tolerate any- 
thing like flirting in the servants’ hall. I sent away a girl 
last week — Priscilla Hall, as good a house-maid as ever 
stepped — because James, the coachman, had been seen kiss- 
ing her back of the graperies, one day just at dusk. I don’t 
say there was any harm in it; but I do say that I will not 
tolerate any such goings-on, neither in maid nor man." 

“ Oh, ma’am," hastily interposed Mrs. Mackenzie, “I do 
assure you as my niece wouldn’t so much as think of such a 
thing. Would you, Lotty?" 

“Oh, no, no!" cried Lotty, shrinking back, and glowing 
all over with shame and confusion. And Mrs. Arbuckle liked 
her manner. 

“Let me see," said she; “I think your aunt mentioned 
your name, but it has escaped me for the moment." 

“ Charlotte Corey, ma’am." 

“Yes — exactly," said Mrs. Arbuckle, tapping her specta- 


dt a ike's love-life. 


65 


cle-case against her fingers. “Well, Charlotte, 1 need a 
young woman to do needle-work of all sorts, see to the linen- 
room, and make herself generally useful; and, as your aunt 
speaks so favorably of you^y-I have known Mrs. Mackenzie 
for a long time, and entertain the highest respect for her — I 
will give you a month's trial, at the end of which time you 
will be permanently engaged, in case you suit. " 

Lotty courtesied low. “ Thank you, ma'am," said she. 
“I'll try my very best; indeed 1 will." 

“ 1 don't doubt it, child," said the old lady. “ Let me see 
— about the references from your last place." 

Lotty looked in a bewildered way at her aunt. Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie made haste to break the awkward silence. 

“ Oh, ma'am, didn't I mention it?" said she, smoothly. 
“ Lotty has never lived out afore. Thank goodness, her 
folks was decent, and able to do for her at home! But they're 
all dead and gone now, and she's got to find for herself, poor 
girl; and it'll be a great weight off my mind to have her in a 
place like this, ma'am, under your eye; for it makes a deal 
of difference, ma’am, where a girl is." 

“ Oh, certainly, certainly," smiled Mrs. Arbuckle, not in- 
sensible to the subtle flattery. “You may send up your niece's 
things, Mrs. Mackenzie. We're busy getting ready for the 
master and Miss Kate, and there's a deal to be done; and 
Lotty may as well begin at once." 

Lotty gave a little start; her velvet-dark eyes dilated, as if 
in sudden terror. 

“ Do you mean noio f” said she. “At once?" 

“ That is what 1 mean," said Mrs. Arbuckle, blandly. 

“ But, Aunt Phillis," murmured Lotty, laying a trembling 
hand on her aunt's arm, “ I must go back to-night." 

“ What for, in the name of common sense?" angrily retort- 
ed her aunt, in the same tone. “ Don't you hear what Mrs. 
Arbuckle says — that she wants you now ?" 

Lotty stood pale and trembling, her hands tightly clasped, 
and her eyes shining pitifully, like the orbs of a hunted deer. 

Mrs. Arbuckle looked at her in grave surprise. 

“ What is the rriatter?" said she. “ Has the young person 
changed her mind, Mrs. Mackenzie?" 

“ Oh, dear, no, ma'am," said the gardener's wife, all 
smiles. “ She’ll stay, ma'am, and glad of the chance. And 
mind, Lotty " — with a side-glance which was not altogether 
honey — “ you do your very best to deserve Mrs. Arbuckle 's 
kind favor." 

She turned away, dropping a low obeisance to the house- 
3 


68 


CLAIRE LOVE-LlEfi. 


keeper as she spoke; but, just at that moment, one of the 
maids came to tell Mrs. Arbuckle that the grand Italian gen- 
tleman, with the long hair, and the black velvet coat, wanted 
to speak to her. 

“ Stay you here, child, until I come back,” said Mrs. Ar- 
buckle, not unkindly, to the pale and trembling girl. “ I'll 
not be long.” 

She hurried away, her brocaded silk dress rustling as she 
went, and Lotty grasped eagerly at Mrs. Mackenzie’s arm. 

“ Oh, Aunt Phillis!” she wailed, “ let me go back with 
you, just for to-night! Let me put Johnnie to bed, just once 
more!” 

“ Child!” ejaculated Mrs. Mackenzie, in low, indignant ac- 
cents, “ are you crazy? Do you want to lose the place? 
Twenty pound a year, if you’re lucky enough to give satisfac- 
tion!” 

“ I would give it all for one more kiss of Johnnie,” sobbed 
the frantic young mother. “ Oh, Aunt Phillis, you’ll be 
kind to him! Promise me — promise me, on your hopes of 
salvation, that you’ll be kind to my baby Johnnie!” 

By way of answer, Mrs. Mackenzie only pushed Lotty back 
into the housekeeper’s room, and hurried away as fast as she 
could, muttering something about 4 ‘ fools and their folly.” 
And poor Lctty sunk baok, pale and almost fainting, on a 
chair, her hand pressed tightly over the poor sore heart upon 
which, every night until now, from its birth, her golden- 
haired baby had slept. 

When Mrs. Arbuckle came back, Lotty, was able to look 
her in the face with composure, and respond to her remarks 
with coherence. 

“ I’ll take you up to the linen-room and set you to work at 
once,” said the housekeeper, “ for goodness knows when I 
shall get another' leisure minute.” 

“ Thank you, ma’am,” said Lotty, meekly. “And I’ll 
do my very best to please you.” 

In the meanwhile, Mrs. Mackenzie made her way home as 
fast as she could, and was rather relieved to find her husband 
still asleep with the London paper in tljpteeullery. The 
noise she made in unlocking the door, however, disturbed him 
from his nap. 

“Eh?” said honest John, rubbing his heavy eyes. “ So 
you’ve been gadding again!” 

“Gadding, indeed!” repeated his spouse, with acerbity. 
“ You think no one has a right to put their nose out-of-doors 
but yourself, I reckon. I’ve only just stepped up to the 


CLAIRE'S LOVE-LIFE. 


(37 

Court to see ahput-a place for a niece of mine from Man- 
chester.” 

To this Mr. Mackenzie made no direct reply, merely stretch- 
ing himself, and remarking that he “reckoned he would go 
in for his pipe, and take another look at the south grape- 
house where them Muscatines was a-ripenin' so beautiful.” 

But the instant he crossed the threshold, little Johnnie 
reared up in his bed of pillows, and looked at him, with 
laughing lips and outstretched hands, an apparition of baby 
beauty which had never yet brightened the dreary precision 
of the well-kept room. 

“ Halloo!” shouted Mackenzie, half uncertain whether the 
bewildering influences of his last dream were not still follow- 
ing’him. “ Wife! Phillis!” 

“Well, what is it?” sharply responded his wife, who was 
busy in the* scullery. 

“ 1 ain't asleep and dreaming yet, be 1?” said he, rubbing 
his eyes violently. 

“ I reckon you're as wide awake as common,” said Mrs. 
Mackenzie. 

“ But, look here!” uttered her husband. “ There's a baby 
here! A live baby /” 

“ Well, 1 know it!” said Mrs. Mackenzie. 

“Whose is it?” demanded the head gardener. “And 
where did it come from?” 

“ It belongs to a distant relative of mine,” said Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie, at length joining him, with a defiant expression of 
countenance. “ My niece, Lotty Corey, brought it down 
with her. It haia't no parents, and I’ve took it to mind, at 
half a crown a, week.” 

She had half misdoubted her, notwithstanding her bold and 
confidant speech, that John Mackenzie would upset all her 
plans by refusing utterly to allow the presence of this tiny in- 
truder under his roof-tree, but she need not have been afraid. 
The head gardener had a kind and child-loving heart, and he 
snapped his fingers at the baby and chirruped clumsily to it. 

“ Well, 1 am took aback!” said he. “But it's a main 
pretty boy, Phillis, and it'll 'liven up the house. What's its 
name?” 

“ Its name?” repeated Mrs. Mackenzie, stooping to pick a 
pin off the carpet. “ It's Goff — Johnnie Goff! And now I 
must go and soak some bread and milk for its supper afore I 
puts it to bed.” 

And she stepped briskly about her work, thinking to her- 
self how lucky it was that Mackenzie had not objected to her 


68 


CLAIRE S LOVE-LIFE. 


darling scheme for earning a little money for herself. And 
baby Johnnie lay crowing among his pillows, and never missed 
the young mother whose heart was aching so bitterly for him. 


CHAPTER X. 
ah explanation; 

“ Of, girls, isn’t it lovely?” 

Lady Lydia Grafton was leaning out of the window of the 
satin-lined carriage as it rolled noiselessly along the avenue 
which led from the high-road to the stately old mansion at 
Wild Aspens. And, in truth, the exclamation was not un- 
called for. Never had Wild Aspens borne a fairer aspect than 
upon that soft May morning, with the foliage all bursting into 
spring freshness, violets purpling all -The sunny slopes, and 
birds caroling on every bough. 

Lady Littleton leaned back in her corner of the carriage, 
wrapped in furs and shawls, as if the calendar pointed to De- 
cember instead of April. Lady Littleton took cold very easily, 
and she had a horror of the country. Miss Carew sat beside 
her, and opposite were Claire Colonsay and Lady Lydia; the 
latter in ecstasies at the sylvan beauty of the place. 

“ Just look at that statue of Diana!” cried she, pointing her 
finger to where a glistening group of marble shone through 
the drooping boughs of an old tamarack. “ And yonder In- 
dian Hunter! — doesn’t it seem as if he were springing at us! 
Oh, I do think it is like Paradise here! And only to think of 
being the mistress of all these fair domains!” with a merry 
peal of exultant laughter. “ Oh, Claire, don’t you wish you 
were me?” 

The guilty crimson dyed Claire Colonsay ’s cheek — at that 
very minute she had been wondering why fate had dealt so 
much more liberally with others than herself. 

“ Take care. Lady Lydia,” said she, evasively, “ you will 
lose your scarf!” 

44 Oh, who cares for scarfs!” retorted Lady Lydia, careless- 
ly twitching the costly India wrapping into the carriage win- 
dow. “ 1 do think Malcolm might have offered to take me 
with him in the light wagonette, though. It would have been 
so much jollier than to be packed in here. . 1 wonder why he 
didn’t?” 

44 Perhaps he was afraid his feelings might be too much for 
him,” said Claire, with a slight curve of the lip. 

“ Perhaps,” assented Lady Lydia, in perfect good faith. 
She was a great deal too honest and straightforward herself to 


claire’s love-life. 


69 


suspect anything like sarcasm in others. But Miss Carew 
looked quickly up. She had never quite liked Claire Colon- 
say in the old school days, and although her heart had been 
melted and attracted by the girl’s loneliness and distress when 
first she came to the house in Grosvenor Square, she was too 
keen an observer of human nature not to perceive that Claire’s 
less winning qualities were developing themselves in propor- 
tion as she became more confident and assured in her new 
home. 

“Iam afraid she is a little selfish,” thought gentle Kather- 
ine to herself. “ And sometimes I fancy she has not a great 
deal of heart. But, after all, poor girl, one ought not to 
blame her, when one considers how she has been tossed about 
the world, and forced to struggle for herself. We that have 
been brought up securely in the shelter of happy homes, ought 
never to be harsh in our judgments on those who are less fort- 
unate.” 

Lord Aspendale was standing in the colonnaded shadow of 
the great porte-cochere , the western sunshine playing around 
his uncovered head, and received the newly arrived guests with 
all the courtly politeness of a gentleman of the old school. 

“ My dear Lady Littleton,” said he, pressing the eldest 
lady’s hand in his own, “ 1 can scarcely tell you how much I 
appreciate the honor you have done me in visiting my poor 
house. Lady Lydia, can it be possible that the little romping 
girl I remembered has grown into this tall young damsel? 
Miss Carew, you are welcome.” 

“ And this. Lord Aspendale,” said Lady Lydia, pushing 
Claire forward, as the old gentleman put up his eye-glasses 
doubtfully, “ is Miss Colonsay, my school friend, and mam- 
ma’s companion. Mopsey ” — with a shak£ of the finger at 
the countess — “ why don’t you speak up and introduce our 
Claire?” 

“ My dear, you are so impetuous,” said Lady Littleton; and 
Lord Aspendale held out a welcoming hand to the blushing 
girl. 

“lam gratified to see you here, Miss Colonsay,” said he. 

' “ Dorothy Dickson” — to a plump, middle-aged woman who 
w T as courtesying in the background — “ I deliver these ladies 
over into your care. Take them to their rooms, and see that 
they receive every attention.” 

Meanwhile, Malcolm Aspendale, driving all alone by him- 
self through the secluded greenery of a quiet little by-road 
which led through a less frequented neighborhood to the park 
of Wild Aspens, was pondering earnestly on all that had lately 


70 


claire’s love-life. 


transpired. But it was not of Lady Lydia Grafton that he 
was thinking. To speak truth. Lady Lydia had made a most 
unfavorable impression upon him, what time the revolving 
hinges of the drawing-room door had revealed her to him, with 
the scarlet face, streaming hair, and ungraceful attitude. 

“ She is a good, honest girl enough,” he told himself, with 
an unconscious shrug of the. shoulders; “ but fitter for a 
dairy-maid than a peeress. And that dark-eyed little com-’ 
panion of hers is extremely pretty and piquante; but Miss 
Carew is as beautiful as a vision. Katherine— Kate — the 
queenly name suits her as if it had been made for her. She 
is like the picture of the Madonna that hangs in the library at 
the Aspens; she is like a tall, stately lily, or a pearl. And 
then she has such a slow, serene way of moving and speaking, 
that it rests one to be near her. I wonder if she will like the 
Aspens? 1 wonder what she will think of Uncle Laurence? 
How fortunate that she happened to be in Grosvenor Square 
when I called there!” 

For Mr. Malcolm Aspendale, who had been sent to London 
expressly to be fascinated by the Earl of Littleton’s only 
daughter, had, with the proverbial perversity of Love, lost his 
heart utterly and irremediably to Katherine Carew. Alas! 
for Lord Aspendale’s fond hopes — alas! for the radiant castles 
in the air which Lady Lydia had been building in her artless 
heart. Alas! for poor Malcolm himself. 

Lord Aspendale was walking up and down the marble-paved 
hall when, at length, his young cousin came in, his dark hair 
blown about by the wind, his cheeks flushed with the drive. 

“Well, Malcolm, well, my lad,” said he, “what do you 
think of her?” 

“ I think, Uncle Laurence,” said the man, his mind full of 
the golden tresses and sea-blue eyes of Katherine Carew, “ that 
she is the loveliest creature I ever saw in my life.” 

Lord Aspendale rubbed his hands joyously. 

“ Do you think so?” said he. “ Well, making every al- 
lowance for a young man’s enthusiasm, I can not agree with 
you, quite. She has a nice, frank face, though, and — ” 

“ What can you possibly mean, sir?” said Malcolm, im- 
pulsively. “ Why, she is exactly like that divine-eyed Cor- 
reggio that you bought in Venice last year.” 

"“.Not in the least!” said Kord Aspendale, with a puzzled 
look. “ Who ever saw a Madonna with a tip-tilted nose and 
freckles?” 

“ Uncle Laurence!” cried Malcolm, stopping short before 
the old gentleman, “ whom on earth are you talking about?” 


claire’s love-life. 7 i 

u Lady Lydia Grafton, to be sure,” curtly responded Lord 
Aspendale. 

“ Lady Lydia Grafton!” repeated Malcolm, in some dis- 
comfiture. “ Oh, I understand. Yes, she is very pleasant ; 
but, as yon mention, her nose isn’t quite Grecian, and her 
complexion might be improved upon. But I am late already. 
I’ll see you again before we go to dinner, sir. Au revoir /” 

And young Aspendale hurried off, nervously anxious to ap- 
pear en grand toilette at dinner, while the old man stood star- 
ing straight before him in the middle of the hall. 

“ Humph!” Lord Aspendale muttered to himself; “ which 
of those two girls was he rhapsodizing about? The tall 
blonde, Carew’s daughter, or the one with the dark-brown 
eyes and the red lips? What on earth does Lady Littleton 
mean by letting her daughter go about with two such pretty 
. girls? But she never had' common sense, -not even in Little- 
ton’s time.” 

“ Claire, look here,” said Lady Lydia that night, putting 
her head into her mother’s dressing-room, where Claire was 
reading aloud the Evening Lesson to Lady Littleton, previous 
to her retiring. “ Dear little Mopsey, excuse me, but can’t 
Jacqueline do that for you just as well?” 

“ Certainly, my love, if you want Miss Colonsay,” said mild 
Lady Littleton. And Claire followed Lady Lydia into the 
adjoining suite of apartments, which had been assigned to her 
especial use — a little bay-windowed boudoir, with a moss-soft 
Turkey carpet of blended blues and scarlets, blue satin hang- 
ings, and walls of pale blue penciled with gold. From this 
luxurious little room, where birds and flowers, writing-desk 
and cabinet piano were arranged in such a way as to present 
as home-like an aspect as possible, opened bedroom, dressing- 
room, and bath, all in blue and gold, and separated, only by 
blue satin curtains and slender blue columns, with acanthus 
capitals of gold. In all her brief life Claire Colonsay had 
never seen such magnificence as reigned at Wild Aspens, but 
she was too politic to express the surprise she felt, and en- 
deavored, not without success, to preserve the manner of one 
who had been accustomed to luxury from her youth up. 

' Lady Lydia, in a long silk dressing-gown, with hair floating 
wildly over her shoulders, and feet thrust into a pair of tiny 
swan’s-down lined slippers, stood before the fire with one 
hand on Claire’s shoulder. 

“ Claire,” said she, solemnly, “ I’ve made a discovery!” 

“ Well?” said Miss Colonsay, indifferently. 

“ He don’t care a row of pins for me,” said Lady Lydia. 


n 


claire’s love-life. 


4 4 By him , you mean — ” 

44 1 mean Malcolm Aspendale, of course,” said Lady Lydia, 
stamping her foot impatiently on the rug. 44 Whom else 
should I mean? He don’t care for me. He’s in love with 
Kate Carew!” 

Claire smiled. 44 Have you just discovered that fact?” said 
she. 44 1 could have told you as much long ago.” 

But, even while she spoke, a pang of jealous envy transfixed 
her heart. Here it was again, yet another instance of the un- 
fair dealing of Providence. To the abundance of this beauti- 
ful young heiress, the love of Malcolm Aspendale was now 
added, while she — she, who felt herself no less lovely and at- 
tractive, was left to drudge on, fighting with the world for a 
slender maintenance. 

44 Though I don’t wonder at it much,” frankly admitted 
good-natured Lady Lydia. 44 Kate is so beautiful! 1 should 
fall in love with her if 1 were a man, so why shouldn’t Mal- 
colm? 1 was a little vexed at first, I must own, for he is so 
delightfully handsome, and the heir of Wild Aspens, and all 
that. But of course he can’t help it; neither can Kate. So 
I’ll give them my blessing. Look here, Claire ” — dismissing 
the subject with the utmost philosophy — “did 1 ever show 
you those exquisite little ivory ear-rings that Kate brought me 
from Switzerland? Louise ” — to her maid — 44 get me the 
blue velvet case with the brass mountings.” 

Lord Aspendale, however, was less easily convinced, and, 
although at the end of a week some misgivings had begun to 
stir unpleasantly in his mind, he broached the subject boldly 
to his young relative as they sat together over their wine and 
hot-house peaches. 

44 Well, Malcolm,” said he, benignantly, 44 Lady Littleton 
and her daughter have been here a week now.” 

44 Is it so long, sir?” said Malcolm, peeling a banana, and 
feeding little pieces of it to Jessie, who, as usual, lay curled 
up beside his chair. 

“Aha!” said the old' gentleman. 44 So the time passes 
rapidly to you, does it? Well, I don’t wonder, my boy, 1 
don’t wonder. She’s very agreeable, isn’t she? So frank and 
open when you once get fairly acquainted with her.” 

44 Do you mean Lady Littleton, sir?” 

44 1 mean Lady Lydia,” testily corrected Lord Aspendale. 

“ She seems to be very amiable,” said Malcolm, listlessly. 
For Kate Carew was singing old English ballads in the twi- 
light drawing-room, and Malcolm was thinking within himself 
how much pleasanter it would be listening to her than to be 


claire’s loye-life. 73 

drinking his uncle’s priceless port and cob webbed claret below- 
stairs. 

** They are all going to Carew Court on Monday/’ added 
Lord Aspendale^ 

“ Are they, sir?” Evidently, Malcolm was not interested in 
the subject. 

“Malcolm,” said the old gentleman, briskly, “what do 
you think of her?” 

“ Of — ” Malcolm looked inquiringly up. 

“ Of Lady Lydia Grafton?” 

“ I should call her a very pleasant young lady.” 

“ But I mean about marrying her.’ Surely,” said Lord 
Aspendale, pushing back his slender-stemmed wine-glass, and 
leaning both elbows on the table, “ you can not have forgot- 
ten what we talked about in this very room so brief awhile 
ago?” 

It was coming now. There was no longer any evading of 
the subject, and Malcolm Aspendale braced himself, figura- 
tively speaking, for the combat, as he sat up straight, and 
looked his relative in the face. 

“ 1 have not forgotten it, sir,” said he. 

“Well?” 

“ Uncle Laurence,” began the young man, hurriedly, “ I 
need not tell you, 1 am sure, how much pleasure *ft would 
give me to be able to consult your wishes in this respect, as in 
all others.” 

“ Go on,” said Lord Aspendale, dryly. “ We’ll take all 
that for granted. ” • 

“ But,” added Malcolm, in a low, firm voice, “ 1 must de- 
cline to enter the lists as an aspirant for Lady Lydia Grafton’s 
hand. ” 

“ What?” thundered Lord Aspendale, his whole counte- 
nance altering into stern rigidity, his brow flushing, and his 
eyes glittering ominously. Word for word, Malcolm repeated 
his sentence again: 

“ I am sorry to disappoint you, sir; but I must decline to 
enter the lists as an aspirant for Lady Lydia Grafton’s hand.” 

“ And may 1 venture to ask what reason you have for this 
very unexpected decision?” demanded Lord Aspendale, speak- 
ing slowly, and with enforced calmness, as if the least relaxa- 
tion in his self-control might let loose a repressed torrent of 
anger. 

“Because I do not love her. Uncle Laurence. Because I 
never shall!” Malcolm answered. 

“ And my wishes, I suppose, are to go for nothing?” 


74 


CLAIRE’S LOYE-LiFE. 


“ They weigh a great deal with me, sir,” said Malcolm; 
“ but, in a case like this, one can only go by the dictates of 
one’s own heart.” 

“ Malcolm,” said Lord Aspendale, leaning eagerly forward, 
“ don’t be rash. For Heaven’s sake, my boy, don’t come to 
any hasty conclusion. These are early days. 1 ought not to 
have spoken so soon. Wait a little, and consider the matter. 
Why, you are hardly acquainted with Lady Lydia yet. At 
the end of another month, let us say — ” 

“ Uncle Laurence,” interposed Malcolm, “ believe me, all 
this is useless. Lady Lydia Grafton can never be anything 
more to me than she is now. ” 

“ Do you mean it, boy?” 

“ I do mean it, sir, from the very bottom of my heart.” 

“ And you will not even try to love her?” 

“ It would be of no avail, Uncle Laurence,” Malcolm an- 
swered, sadly enough, for he had never dreamed, until now, 
how dear this idea had become to Lord Aspendale’s soul. 

“You will not marry her— you will not even endeavor to 
school yourself into loving her?” 

“ Since you put it in that way — no. Uncle Laurence;” 

Lord Aspendale rose, pale and cold, to his feet. 

“ Malcolm,” said he, “1 never had a son, but you have 
always seemed like one to me; and, when I have heard par- 
ents speak of the sting, sharper than a serpent’s tooth, of a 
thankless child, I have smiled to myself to think how secure 
I have been from such a pang as that. For I believed in you, 
Malcolm* I never doubted but that you would repay my life- 
time’s love with duty and gratitude. But I am undeceived at 
last.” x 

“ Ask me anything but this, sir!” cried out the young man, 
passionately. “ Put my allegiance to any other test, and you 
shall find it unshaken; but in this I can not obey you.” 

“ I shall never ask another favor of you,” said Lord Aspen- 
dale, trembling all over with the rage and agitation he strove 
resolutely to keep down, “ except that you will leave Wild 
Aspens now and forever. I desire that you will not even 
pass another night under this roof. Whatever possessions 
you may have here can be packed by your valet, and forward- 
ed to any address you may choose to designate. But from 
this moment henceforward you are nothing more to me than 
the veriest stranger that plods along yonder road.” 

“ Uncle Laurence!” cried out the young man, in a sort of 
startled horror, “ you surely do not mean what you say!” 

, Lord Aspendale lifted his patrician hand as if in warning. 


CLAIRE*S LOVE-LIF®. 76 

“ Do not call me by that name, if you please,” said he, 
frigidly. “ I am not your uncle, and I only wish that I could 
eradicate every drop of my kindred blood that flows through 
your veins. Sever come to me again for aid or countenance 
of any sort, for, believe me, it will be in vain. And now, 
good-evening.” 

He walked with a slow and stately step out of the room, 
leaving Malcolm standing, in surprise and amazement, under 
the brilliant white stars of the wax candles that burned in the 
chandelier overhead. 


CHAPTER XI. 

WHAT LADY LYDIA THOUGHT. 

For a second or two the young man remained motionless* 
like one stunned by some sudden and unexpected blow. And 
then a full sense of Lord Aspendale's injustice broke over his 
mind, and he drew himself haughtily up, with curling lips, 
and eyes flashing indignant fire. He had loved and honored 
his adopted uncle, up to this time, with blind fealty, but h9 
knew that the moment had now come in which duty must 
give way to self-respect. 

“ Be it so,” he uttered aloud. “ He may make a beggar 
of me, but he can not buy or sell me for the benefit of any 
heiress in all England. He has been kind^to me in past years 
— that I never can forget — but he has no right to ask this 
crowning sacrifice of my life. I would rather have parted 
kindly with him; but, other than that, I have no reason to 
blame myself in any particular for this evening's work.” 

And he put on his hat, and walked as calmly out of the 
dining-hall as if he were only going to smoke a cigar beside 
the fountain. 

As good luck — or bad— would have it. Lady Lydia Grafton 
was coming up from the greenhouses, with a spray of fiery 
scarlet cacths blooms in her hand. 

“ Oh, Malcolm,” cried she — for they were on quite cousin- 
ly terms by this time — “ where are you going?” 

“ To Stoke Aspen.” 

“ At this time in the evening?” 

“ Yes— why not?” 

Lady Lydia looked intently at him. 

“ What has happened?” said she. 

“ How do you know that anything has happened?” Mal- 
colm retorted, looking at her eager, upturned face with an 
amused smile. 


74 


claire’s love-life. 


44 How do I know that J upiter is blazing up there above the 
hot-house roof? how do I know that the wind is blowing?” 
cross-questioned Lady Lydia. 44 I’m not a fool, Malcolm 
Aspendale. Come, if you won’t answer me. I'll answer my- 
self. You are going away from here because Lord Aspendale 
wants you to marry me, and you don’t fancy the idea.” 

“ Lady Lydia, you are an enchantress.” 

44 And you’re quite right,” added the girl, with a little nod 
of her red -brown curls. 44 We never should have suited each 
other. But, all the same, it isn’t quite agreeable to me to be 
offered and declined, like a poetical contribution to the news- 
papers or a picture sent to the Royal Academy. That isn’t 
my fault, though, nor yours— it’s Lord Aspendale’s. What 
does he want to get such absurd ideas into his head for?” 

To this Malcolm felt that he could make no satisfactory re- 
ply, so he kept silence. 

44 When are you coming back?” qhestioned Lady Lydia, 
abruptly. 

44 Never!” 

44 He is angry with you, then?” 

44 Yes.” 

44 The old goose!” said Lady Lydia, flushing red. 44 And 
it’s all my fault. And I suppose you despise me dreadfully!” 

Aspendale held out his hand with a kind glance. 

44 On the contrary. Lady Lydia,” said he, 44 1 think that I 
respect and admire you more at this moment than ever I did 
before in ray life.” 

4 4 Almost enough to fall in love with me?” demurely de- 
manded Lady Lydia. 

44 Almost!” 

44 Come, then, let’s shake hands on it,” said Lady Lydia. 
44 Perhaps you would like to kiss me? As a cousin, you 
know?” 

She put up her rosy lips, with the mischief shining out from 
under her eyelashes, and Malcolm Aspefldale would have been 
either more or less than man if he had neglected to avail 
himself of the roguish challenge. He stooped his tall head 
and kissed her affectionately. 

44 Lady Lydia,” said he, “you have a nobler nature than 
most women. And I am glad that we part thus amicably.” 

44 So am I,” said Lady Lydia; 44 that is, if we must part at 
all. Heigho! what a crabbed, disagreeable sort of a world 
this is. Good-bye, Malcolm — and all good luck go with you.” 

And when Malcolm Aspendale paused on the verge of the 
superb elm avenue, which led in devious windings to the 


77 


claire’s love- lire. 

porter’s lodge at the gate, and looked back, the last object 
that he saw was Lady Lydia standing under a bowery screen 
of roses, the plash and sparkle of the fountain veiling her, as 
it were, in silver mist, and the last faint glow of the orange 
sunset shining softly over the marble groups on either side of 
the statejy front of Wild Aspens. She waved her hand en- 
couragingly to him, and the wind, lifting the end of her silken 
scarf, fluttered it, like a mimicry of the action, as he vanished 
under the bending shadows of the elms. 

“He’s a splendid fellow,”. said Lady Lydia, aloud. “I 
wish he had fallen in love with me! 1 wish I had dared to 
ask him about Kate — dear, royal Kate, that no one can help 
falling in love with, whether they will or not! And now I’ll 
go in and give Lord Aspendale a piece of my mind.” 

And Lady Lydia proceeded straight to the drawing-room, 
where Kate Carew was still singing softly at the piano. Lady 
Littleton dozing on a sofa, and Claire Colonsay working point, 
lace by the light of the shaded lamp, while, in an easy-chair 
near the window, and apart from the rest, sat Lord Aspen- 
dale, looking gloomily out at the stars slowly rising behind a 
wall of blossoming myrtle without. She walked up to him 
and gave a little stamp of her foot to attract his attention. 
He started. ' 

“ Lady Lydia, is it you?” he said, trying to smile. 

“ Yes, it is 1,” said Lady Lydia; “ and you’ll wish it wasn’t 
before I get through. Lord Aspendale, you’re a tyrant! 
You’re a bear — a despot — a Turk!” 

Lady Littleton sat up on her sofa, rubbing her eyes, and 
looking very much astonished. 

“ Lydia,” said she. “ My child, are you crazy?” 

“Be quiet, Mopsey,” said the heiress, authoritatively. 
“ This is no affair of yours. It’s mine — and Lord Aspen- 
dale’s, and Malcolm’s! Yes, sir; you’re a tyrant, and a mar- 
tinet! And I despise you — so there, now! And I’ll never for- 
give you as long as I live!” 

“ My dear Lady Lydia — ” 

“ But I’m not your dear Lady L} T dia, and never shall be, 
and never want to be. And I won’t stay here at Aspendale 
another day, now that you’ve turned Malcolm out-of-doors 
like the horrid old brutes one reads of in story books.” 

“ Ah!” Lord Aspendale elevated his eyebrows. “ So Mal- 
colm has been appealing to you for sympathy, has he?” 

“ No, he hasn’t,” said Lady Lydia, breathless with indig- 
nation. “ And you know better than to say such a thing.” 

Miss Carew had turned around on the piano-stool, and was 


78 


claire's love-life. 


looking on in unbounded surprise. Claire had dropped her 
work. But without paying the slightest heed to them, Lady 
Lydia took her mother’s arm. 

“Come upstairs, Mopsey, darling,*” said she, “and tell 
them to begin packing. For I know I shall say something 
dreadful to Lord Aspendale if I stay here another moment.” 

“ My dear Lady Lydia,” pleaded Claire, “ as if you could 
possibly say anything worse than you have already said.” 

“Oh, I could!” said Lady Lydia. “ A deal worse. You 
don’t know how 1 feel. Don’t apologize to him, Mopsey — he 
don’t deserve it. And I’m not in joke; and I do mean every 
word I say.” 

And thus Lady Lydia Grafton swept out of the room, car- 
rying her resisting parent in her train, and followed by Claire. 

Katherine Carew rose and came to where Lord Aspendale 
stood like one stunned; she laid her hand on his arm. 

“ What does she mean, sir?” said she. 

“ My dear, 1 am sure I don’t know,” said Lord Aspendale. 
“It’s a part of the general commotion, I suppose. Mal- 
colm has chosen to set me at defiance, and now this girl adds 
her little voice to the outcry. 1 had supposed that Malcolm 
owed me some duty and respect. I imagined that Lady Lydia 
Grafton liked me. It seems I was mistaken in both in- 
stancesi” 

And he sunk spiritlessly back into his chair. 

Miss Carew had listened to his words with varying color. 

“ 1 am sure that Lydia will regret her impetuosity when 
she has time to reflect,” said she, gently. 

“ Perhaps,” said Lord Aspendale. “ Perhaps.” 

But he was a very sad and lonely old man, as he sat there, 
staring vaguely out into the twilight. Sad, in spite of his 
wealth; lonely, in spite of all it could buy him. For Lady 
Lydia’s words had struck deep, like envenomed arrows, into 
his heart. 

“A despot!” he muttered to himself. “A tyrant! — and 
yet it was all for her sake.” 

Lady Lydia Grafton kept her word. The party left Wild 
Aspens on the following morning, having telegraphed up to 
Grosvenor Square that they would stop there for a few nights, 
until Carew Court was ready to receive them. Lady Little- 
ton was full of apologies to her host, but Lord Aspendale said 
but little. Claire and Katherine made their adieus with some 
embarrassment, but Lady Lydia stoutly refused even to see 
Lord Aspendale. 


Claire’s loye-liee. 


79 


“ I told him what 1 thought of him last night,” said she, 
“ and 1 haven’t in any way altered my opinion since.” 

“ Oh, Lydia!” groaned Lady Littleton, leaning back in the 
carriage, with her scent-bottle to her nostrils; “and he was 
oue.of your dear papa’s very oldest friends.” 

“I can’t help that,” said Lady # Lydia. “All the same, 
he hasn’t any business to be a bear.” 

Up to this time Claire Colonsay had regarded Lady Lydia 
Grafton with good-humored contempt, as a mere tool, with no 
individuality of her own. Now she conceived a certain re- 
spect for the girl who dared openly to tell Lord Aspendale her 
honest opinion of him, and who cared nothing, and less than 
nothing, for the rank and prestige of a peer of the realm, as 
compared with her own standard of right. And it even 
crossed Claire’s mind that Lady Lydia might possibly dispose 
of her with equal unceremoniousness if she chanced to inter- 
fere with that young lady’s ideas. 

“ There is more in her than I thought,” said Claire to her- 
self; “ and as I shall certainly find no more luxurious way of 
earning my living than this, it behooves me to be a little care- 
ful.” 

And she was more attentive than ever to Lady Littleton on 
the journey back to London. For Claire Colonsay had the 
wisdom of the serpent, if not the gentleness of the dove. 


CHAPTER XII. 

RUINED. 

Verulam’s Inn Chambers is no gloomy, smoke-dried pile, 
lurking in wreaths of fog and encircled, as it were, with the 
roar of ceaseless city life, as its name would seem to imply, 
but a substantial building in one of the pleasantest parts of 
London, quite near enough to the West End to be convenient 
for parties, evening concerts, and receptions, and yet" not re- 
moved from business localities — a spacious quadrangle of red 
brick, overlooking a sort of park, where idle people sat on 
hard settees and stared at a spasmodic little fountain in the 
center, which played or did not play, according to a system 
of hydraulics which no one had ever pretended to understand, 
and where sparrows hopped about amid the sickly green foli- 
age that overhung a waste of trodden grass, heedless of nurse- 
maids and children that watched their tiny gambols, and ut- 
terly regardless of the occasional passers-by that took the Inn 
Gardens as a short-cut from Lord Mayor’s Court to Verulam 
Street. 


80 


claire 5 s love-life. 


The door of the Inn Chambers stood open on this bright 
Mayday, as Malcolm Aspendale sprang from a hansom cab 
and ran up the broad stone stairs, three at a time, until, reach- 
ing the door of No. 18, he inserted his key and entered his 
bachelor domains. 

It was not quite so desolate as it would have been had he 
not telegraphed from Aspendale Station to have it in readi* 
ness for his reception. It had been opened and aired, the dust 
shaken from its heavy damask window-hangings, and a cheer- 
ful lire burned on the hearth, Altogether, it was not such a 
dismal place, with its floor of variegated woods, hidden in the 
center with an immense Japanese rug, in whose blue-and- 
scariet pile the foot sunk as in a sort of luxurious morass, and 
its gray walls literally covered with choice prints, proof en- 
gravings, and photographic gems. A big table, piled with 
books and pamphlets and writing materials, stood in the mid- 
dle, with a leather-covered easy-chair drawn up in front of it; 
a Maltese cat, with whom little Jessie, the black-and-tan ter- 
rier, seemed on excellent terms, lay purring loudly before the 
fire, and a half-open door revealed a sleeping apartment be- 
yond furnished with every luxury. For Malcolm Aspendale, 
besides being in the possession of a comfortable little patri- 
mony of his own, had always looked upon himself as the p>ob- 
able heir of Wild Aspens, and saw no especial reason for prac- 
ticing economy. He was a young man, and young men like 
to fling their money right and left; he was generous, and 
there are always plenty of parasites to prey on any such vic- 
tim; and he had good taste, which is at all times an expensive 
luxury, if one dares to gratify it. 

To-day, however, he looked tired and harassed and ill at 
ease. As he had been whirled up to London on the morning 
express his mind had been busy with all that he had left be- 
hind, under the stately roof of Wild Aspens. 

“ I suppose 1 shall never see her again," he told himself, 
“ unless I present myself formally at her father’s house, and 
that seems almost like presumption, as matters at present 
stand. And, if 1 don’t see her, I believe 1 shall go mad." 

And it certainly was not of Lady Lydia Grafton that Mr. 
Aspendale was thinking, as he flung his hat and gloves on the 
table, and took up a pile of letters which had accumulated in 
the little malachite tray» during his absence. Notes, circulars, 
perfumed cards of invitation and foreign letters, covered all 
over with divers colored stamps and postmarks, one by one he 
opened and tossed them aside, until he came to the very last — 
a sober missive, bearing the seal cf a well-known legal firm. 


claire's love-life. 


81 


tfhich he broke open and read once — twice — three times— be- 
fore his astounded brain fully comprehended its direful mean- 
ing. 

“ My dear Mr. Aspe-nt>ale,” it said, “ we deeply regret 
that it is ouf painful duty to inform you of the total ruin of 
the South American Silver Mining Company, in which you in- 
vested forty thousand pounds on the 17th of November last 
past. It is some time, as we are given to understand, since 
any work has been done there, although encouraging accounts 
were transmitted by every mail to England, to enable the 
officers better to mature their plans for embezzlement and 
flight. As it is, there remains no possible chance of any of 
the shareholders being reimbursed, now or ever. If you will 
remember, our advice to you at the time was strongly against 
any such investment, but none the less do we regret this un- 
fortunate termination of affairs. If we can be of any service 
to you, pray do not hesitate to call upon us. 

“ Yours, with much regret, 

“ Sledge & Summerick, 

“10 Dickinson Lane.” 

Malcolm Aspendale laid the letter down when he had finally 
mastered its contents, lighted a cigar, and sat down in the big 
easy-chair before the fire. 

“ So,” said he to himself, after a puff or two, “1 am 
ruined! 1 used to wonder how it would seem to be poor. 
Faith, I am likely to find out now.” 

He looked around the room— at its mirrors, gilding, costly 
proof engravings, Japanese carpetings, and deep-red hang- 
ings, broidered with scrolls and arabesques in gold thread — at 
the solid silver ink-stand, with its jeweled pen-rack; the India 
dressing-gowns in his wardrobe, the fifty-guinea chibouque in 
its sandal-wood stand, the choice plants, daily renewed from 
a florist's, that filled his windows. His servant, who had by 
this time followed with the luggagfe from Stoke Aspen, was 
moving noiselessly about in the adjoining bedroom, unpacking 
his valise. All the outward show and paraphernalia of wealth 
surrounded him— and yet, there upon the table lay that cold, 
uncompromising letter of Sledge & Summerick's, telling him 
that he was neither more nor less than a beggar. 

If the tidings had arrived yesterday, he would have laughed 
at them, secure in the sunshine of his uncle's favor, certain of 
the ultimate reversion of Wild Aspens. To-day all was 
changed. His misfortunes were coming, “ not single-handed, 
but in*battalions,” as it seemed. 


82 


claire’s love-life. 


“ Halloo, old boy!” 

The words broke, crisp and short, upon Malcolm Aspen- 
dale’s reverie. He looked up into the face of a tall, hand- 
some man, with dark eyes, a slightly aquiline nose, a com- 
plexion somewhat fairer than his own, and a lorig mustache, 
which covered a pair of rather thin lips, and yet revealed a 
dazzling set of teeth whenever he smiled. He was handsome 
—undeniably handsome — and yet the first impression of his 
glittering eyes and aquiline nose struck one disagreeably. 

“ It’s you, is it, Eustace?” said Malcolm, without any great 
manifestation of pleasure at the sight of his only brother. 
“ Pray be seated;” and he pointed toward a softly up- 
holstered chair in ruby velvet, studded with silver nails, that 
stood opposite. 

“ So you’ve heard from old Sledge, eh?” said Eustace As- 
pendale, obeying the motion of his brother’s hand, and help- 
ing himself to a cigar out of a tiny fire-gilt stand on the table. 

“ Yes.” 

“ So have 1. A deuce of a bore, isn’t it?” 

Malcolm said nothing. He remembered that it was through 
Eustace’s instrumentality that the unfortunate investment had 
been originally made. Eustace had proposed it, advocated it 
throughout, almost insisted upon it at the last, urged thereto 
by friends of his who had retired from the Silver Mining Com- 
pany with snug little fortunes. But it hardly seemed gener- 
ous to reproach him with this fact, now that criminations and 
recriminations could do no good. 

“ It’s all Sledge’s fault,” went on Eustace, puffing away, 
as he looked at the frescoed figures on the ceiling: “ What 
does a fellow pay a lawyer for, if not to keep him out of all 
such confounded muddles as this? If ever I get rich again — 
which doesn’t seem very probable at the present speaking — 
I’ll change my lawyer.” 

“1 do not blame Sledge at all,” said Malcolm, coldly. 
“ He opposed it all along. We took our own way, and now 
we have no one but ourselves to thank for it.” 

“ All the same, it isn’t pleasant,” sullenly retorted Eustace. 
“ Of course, it will make no difference to you, who have con- 
trived to worm yourself into Uncle Laurence’s good graces, 
but I am not so lucky.” 

Maicolm bit his lip. 

“ Well, then,” said he, “if it will do you any good to 
learnjhat I am in as bad a box as yourself, I tell you frankly 
that Uncle Laurence and I have disagreed — that he has turned 
me out of Wild Aspens.” 


claiee’s love-life. 


8a 


Eustace Aspendale uttered a long, low whistle. 

“ The deuce you have!” said he. “ Now, 1 wonder — I do 
really wonder — if it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to enter 
myself for the Wild Aspens’ stakes again? Rotation in favor, 
eh? But no ” — with a melancholy stroking of his long mus- 
tache — “ I actually haven’t the face to try it, after the terms 
on which I parted with the old 'dragon last year; it wouldn’t 
be safe. But look here, Malcolm-, this knocks all my plans 
up. I came here to borrow a trifle of you, supposing that, 
of course, you were all right down there.” 

“You have come to the wrong place, then, you perceive,” 
retorted Malcolm. 

“ I shall have to stay here, in any event,” said Eustace, 
quite undisturbed by his brother’s coolness. “ There’s a 
couple of bailiffs in possession of my chambers in Princess 
Court, and they would have been in possession of me, too, if 
I hadn’t shown them a clean pair of heels.” 

“ Of course, you are welcome to stay,” said Malcolm, 
slowly; “ at least, as long as 1 retain the rooms. My quarter 
is up next week, and I certainly shall not renew it.” 

“ How much are you behind with the rent?” questioned 
Eustace, as debonairly as if such indebtedness were quite a 
matter of course. 

“ Not at all,” was the curt reply. 

“No?” opening his handsome, black-fringed eyes. “ In 
that case there’s no sort of necessity for giving up the rooms 
just yet. Wait until the landlord runs rusty — time enough to 
clear out then.” 

“ And swindle him out of a quarter’s rent or two?” de- 
manded Malcolm, disdainfully. 

“ My dear boy, don’t use such very ugly words. He has 
swindled you out of enough, I don’t doubt, while you have 
been his tenant.” 

Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. 

“ I may be a poor man,” said he; “ but I am not a villain 
yet, thank Heaven! I say, Thompson,” speaking to the serv- 
ant in the inner room. 

“ Sir,” promptly responded the man. 

“ Let them bring my horse around as soon as possible.” 

“Yes, sir.” And Thompson disappeared through a side- 
door. 

“Going out, eh?” said Eustace, knocking the feathery 
white flakes from the tip of his cigar. 

“ Yes. ” 

“ Where?” 


84 


claire's love-life. 


“ To .Richmond.” 

“ Well, I don't mind if I go with you,” said Eustace, 
languidly. “ It's a nice sort of a day enough — and I’m 
hanged if I know what else to do with myself!” 

Malcolm hesitated a little. He was not particularly anx- 
ious for the society of the brother who had so little in common 
with himself, but he scarcely knew how to decline it. 

“ Well,” said he, slowly. “ Though my errand is strictly 
a business matter.” 

“ Oh, I don't mind that,” said Eustace, rising and stretch- 
ing himself like a handsome gladiator. “Just lend me a 
surtout, will you, and a pair of gloves? We always wore the 
same sizes, I believe.” 

Malcolm Aspendale was rather silent as they bowled along 
the smooth road in the direction of Richmond. The lanes 
of sweet Middlesex were all abloom — the elms waved their 
green banners over suburban churches, and from bits of copse 
and glen came the sweet scent of violets, like the breath of 
Arcadia itself, as Black Eagle, the magnificent trotter in 
which Malcolm had taken so much pride, sped swiftly along, 
seeming almost to spurn the ground under his feet. 

“ My beauty!” thought Malcolm, sadly, as he leaned back 
in the phaeton, watching Black Eagle toss his head under its 
glistening pauoply of gold-mounted harness. “ And you, too, 
must go!” 

“ You'll sell Black Eagle, I suppose?” said Eustace, 
through whose mind similar reflections seemed to be passing. 

“ Yes,” Malcolm answered, shortly. 

“ He'll stand you in a very neat little sum, I shouldn't 
wonder. ” 

“ Very probably.” 

“ I wish / had a fast horse to sell,” observed Eustace, with 
a shrug of the shoulders. “ I say, Malcolm, 1 wonder where 
. the deuce you're going?” 

“ Would you really like to know?” 

“ Why, yes, of course I should.” 

“ I don’t know why I shouldn't tell you,” said Malcolm, 
tenderly removing a fly from Black Eagle's flank with the end 
of his whip-lash. “I am going down to Carew Court. 1 
suppose you have heard of Miles Carew?” 

“ Carew- & Co., the bankers, in Cornelian Street?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Oh, I know them well enough. I cashed a check there 
for Gustavus Edgemarsh, last May,” promptly responded 
Eustace. 


Claire’s love-liee. 


85 


“ And you knew that he was an old friend of our father? 5 ’ 

“Not I. If I had/ 5 with a low laugh, “1 should have 
borrowed money of him long ago.” 

“ I don’t think you would/ 5 said Malcolm, dryly. “ How- 
ever, there is where I am going. 55 

“ You’ll introduce me? 55 

“ 1 shall do nothing of the sort. 55 

“ Oh, well, I’ll not trouble you, dear boy, 55 said Eustace, 
indifferently. “1 can make my own way in the world, I 
flatter myself. And what may be your errand at Carew 
Court? A fine house, as I have heard.” 

“Iam going to ask Mr. Carew to help me to a position of 
some sort,” Malcolm answered. 

“ A — position?” 

“ Yes. Why not? 55 

“ Oh, look here now/ 5 cried Eustace Aspendale in conster- 
nation, “ you’re not going to turn shop-boy, or druggist’s 
clerk, or anything of that sort?” 

“ I am prepared to do anything by which I can make a de- 
cent livelihood,” quietly answered his brother, as he turned 
Black Eagle with a skillful curve into the wide carriage-drive 
that led past the porter’s lodge to Carew Court. And Eustace 
forgot to utter the taunting reply which had risen to his lips 
in admiration at the lovely lawn and blossoming parterres 
which lay on either side of the drive as they whirled up to the 
front of the Court. 


CHAPTER XI1L 
“how came you here?” 

A servant in plain black clothes advanced to the door, 
almost before Black Eagle could be persuaded to stay his 
course, and to him Malcolm put the inquiry as to whether 
Mr. Carew was at home. 

“ Mr. Carew, sir? Yes, sir,” the man responded. “ He is 
at home to-day— -leastways, he hasn’t gone to the City yet. 
But he’s no£ in the house just now, sir.” 

“ Where is he?” asked Malcolm. 

“ He is iii the grounds, sir. He went out directly break- 
fast was over. And I did hear the butle? mention, sir, as he 
was going down to the Lower Cascade to superintend the 
workmen there. If you’ll be so good as to step in, sir, I’ll 
call him immediately.” 

“ Is it far to the Lower Cascade?” asked Malcolm. 


86 ’ CLAIRE'* S LOVE-LIFE. 

“ Oh, dear, no, sir— not an eighth of a mile. I’ll call a 
boy directly to show you the way if yon prefer to go to him.” 

“ Very well. See that the horse is blanketed,” said Mal- 
colm, springing out of the carriage, 44 and don’t let any one 
go within range of his heels. He’s not fond of strangers. 
Eustace,” to his brother, “ you had better stay up here until 
I return.” 

44 All right,” said Eustace, carelessly. 

44 Perhaps the gentleman will walk into the house,” said 
the man, obsequiously. 44 There’s some very fine pictures in 
the Red Room, and a portfoly of engravin’s just come down 
from Knoedler’s as is called worth looking at.” 

And while Malcolm Aspendale walked across the velvet 
lawns, guided by a bright-eyed little lad, with his pocket full 
of marbles, who had been summoned from some recess at the 
back of the house, his younger brother sauntered into a hand- 
some apartment filled with pictures, statuettes, and innumer- 
able articles of virtu, and, flinging himself down on a low 
chair in front of the stand of engravings, began listlessly to 
turn them over. 

44 It’s deuced slow here,” he muttered to himself. 44 1 
almost wish I had stayed in Verulam’s Inn. I say, you,” to 
the servant who had poked the fire and rearranged the win- 
dow-curtains, “just bring me this morning’s 4 Times,’ will 
you?” 

But even the great daily had little power to interest Eus- 
tace Aspendale, after he had skimmed his eye over its sport- 
ing column and 44 personal ” advertisements. He threw it 
down, with a yawn, and, rising to his feet, walked to the door 
of the apartment. 

The hall into which it opened was a magnificent apartment 
of royal height and proportions, its ceilings painted after 
Raphael’s divine cartoons, and the twelve apostles — copies of 
Thorwaldsen’s masterpieces — occupying pedestals of carved 
marble at regular intervals along the walls. Between, tall 
marble vases, filled with growing tropical plants, flung a de- 
licious perfume in the air. The floor was of antique tiles, 
each a pictured gem in itself ; and from the center of this hall 
ascended a wide marble staircase, guarded on either side by 
lovely life-size statues of Venus and Psyche, each bearing a 
cluster of silver-mounted candelabra, while from the landing- 
place above tiny Cupids seemed to laugh as they leaned over, 
and a great oriel window of stained glass threw reflections of 
purple and vivid gold over the sculptured limbs. 

Beyond and back of this staircase, which had been imported 


claiee’s love-life. 


87 


from Italy in sections, and was the pride and glory of old 
Mr. Carew’s heart, a wide-open door led into the back gar- 
dens, and admitted a flood of soft May sunshine; and, half 
hidden by the trails of deep-red “ Cissus ” which hung from 
one of the shallow marble vases, a woman’s slender form was 
just visible, seated on a low chair and busied in needle-work. 

Eustace Aspendale’s eye took in all these details, as he stood 
in the door-way of the Red Room, and stared idly around him. 

“ By Jove!” said he to himself, “ there’s money here; and 
there’s some one who knows how to spend it.” 

And then, glancing up at an exquisite transparency of Da 
Vinci’s “Madonna,” which glittered* above the garden-door, 
his eye followed down the blood-red leaves of the trailing 
cissus, and encountered the slight, bending figure, with face 
half turned away and eyes fixed intently on its work. Obey- 
ing the instinct which always led him to look twice at a pretty 
woman, Eustace Aspend ale sauntered in that direction. 

“ I say, my good girl,” he began, in an insinuating voice, 
“ can you tell me if — ” 

He stopped abruptly. The girl had dropped her sewing and 
risen tremulously to her feet, with great luminous eyes, and a 
face as pale as ashes. 

“ By all the fates!” he exclaimed, bringing his closed hand 
clown against his knee, “ it’s Lotty Kenrick! Good heavens! 
I believe the girl is going to faint!” 

For she had fallen on her knees at his feet, with clasped 
hands and hysteric sobs. 

“ Oh, Mr. -Eustace,” she cried out, “don’t betray me. 
Oh, go away! go away! For the love of Heaven, don’t call 
me by that name again. ” 

Eustace Aspend ale had not a great deal of heart, but the 
poor creature’s agony of distress was enough to stir unpleas- 
antly what he had. Involuntarily he extended his hand to 
raise her up. 

“Don’t be alarmed, child,” said he, not unkindly. “I 
mean you no harm. There, sit clown again. Where’s Vic- 
tor?” 

“ Hush!” Again the white terror blanched her face. 
“ Don’t you know?” 

“ Deuce a bit!” Eustace answered. 

“ He is in New South Wales,” whispered Lotty, glancing 
furtively about her. 

“ Not — ” He stopped and looked at her doubtfully e 

“ Yes,” she answered, faintly. “ Transported. He has 


88 


claire's love-life. 


boen in a prison-ship for a year. Oh, my God! my God! that 
I should live to tell it!" 

And she rocked herself backward and forward in a sort of 
agony as she spoke. 

“ Humph!" he commented, “ that is bad luck. And how 
came you here, Lotty?" 

“ I have broken off the old life," she answered, looking im- 
ploringly up into his face. “ I am trying to earn my bread 
in a decent way, now that he is gone. 1 am doing needle-work 
here. Mrs. Arbuckle knows me as Lotty Corey. Oh, Mr. 
Eustace, please, please don't stand here!" 

“ Why not, you little goose?" 

“ Somebody might see us. Oh, do go away!" 

And, like an echo to the poor girl's breathless words, a 
sound of stiffly rustling garments was heard at this very in- 
stant, and a prim-looking woman issued from a side-door 
hidden by crimson baize screens. It was Mrs. Arbuckle her- 
self, the all-despotic housekeeper at Carew Court. 

She looked sharply, first at Lotty, who bent with feverish 
haste over her work, then at the tall gentleman who had luck- 
ily been abje to recede a pace or two, and leaned rather sheep- 
ishly against one of the carved marble columns that supported 
the stair- way. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir," said she to the latter; “ but are 
you the gentleman that came with Mr. Aspendale a few min- 
utes ago?" 

“Yes," he answered, striving to speak carelessly and at his 
ease. 

“ I was to tell you, sir, that he was waiting for you at the 
front of the house," said the housekeeper, with a little court- 
esy. 

“ Oh, all right. Much obliged to you." 

And Eustace Aspendale strode off and vanished through 
the portals of the great entrance-door. 

No sooner had his footsteps died away on the illuminated 
tiles of the floor than Mrs. Arbuckle turned sharply to the 
seamstress, whose needle was flying so nervously through her 
cambric. She had liked the silent, docile little creature, and 
somehow she felt disappointed in her. 

“ Lotty," said she, “it ain't possible, is it, as you was 
talkin ' to that gentleman?" 

Lotty raised her frightened hazel eyes to Mrs. Arbuckle’s 
forbidding face. 

“ I didn't know it was any harm, ma'am," said she, turn- 
ing from white to pink, and then deathly pale again. “ He— 


claihe’s love-life. 


89 

he asked me about the picture of the Madonna over the door, 
and I told him that the master had it brought over from 
Vienna last summer. Was it wrong, ma’am?” 

Mrs. Arbuckle looked keenly at Lotty’s innocent face for 
a second or two. Apparently her scrutiny was satisfactory, 
for she answered, with an air of mild patronage: 

“ Don’t you know, Lotty, as it’s wrong for a working-girl 
like you to have aught to say to a fine gentleman? And more 
particular when they’re pretty, like you? Not as I say you 
oughtn’t to answer a civil question when it’s asked you; but 
the less you have to say to gentlefolks the better it is for you, 
Lotty; now mark my words.” 

“ I’ll remember, ma’am,” said Lotty. And then, as Mrs. 
Arbuckle passed on, she half rose in her seat. 

“ If you please, ma’am,” said she, tremblingly. Mrs. Ar- 
buckle turned around. 

“ Well,” said she, “ what is it?” 

“ I’ve nigh finished this bit of ruffling, ma’am,” faltered 
Lotty, “ and I’ve sat over it until my head aches a little. 
Might I just run down to my aunt’s cottage for a few min- 
utes, when I’ve done?” 

Mrs. Arbuckle hesitated; it was her rule never to grant 
promptly any petition of the servants, lest they should hold 
their privileges too cheaply. 

“ I don’t know as I’ve any objections,” said she. “ But 
step lively, and mind you don’t stop too long.” 

Lotty drew a long breath; her face grew fairly radiant in 
the pearly shadows of the pictured Madonna. She had been 
at Carew Court now three days, and to the young mother, 
who had never before been separated from her child for a day, 
it seemed an age. Her needle flew like steely lightning until 
she had completed her task, and then she flung a tartan shawl, 
hood-fashion, over her head and shoulders, and hurried down 
the garden-paths, now threading a glossy green copse of 
rhododendrons, now lost in the leafy recesses of a laburnum 
hedge, until at last she came in sight of the glittering range 
of conservatory roofs and John Mackenzie’s ivied cottage be- 
yond. Opening the door, she glided in, her breath coming 
short and quick, her eyes sparkling. 

“ Oh, it’s you, is it?” said Mrs. Mackenzie, who was stew- 
ing something in a saucepan over the fire. “ Why can’t you 
knock, like other folks, Lotty? Such a turn as you’ve give 
me, cornin’ in this way like a hobgoblin!” 

But Lotty made no answer to this ungracious reception. 
Her quick eye had caught sight of a golden-headed little figure 


90 


claike’s love-life. 


sitting on the floor amusing itself with two or throe oyster- 
shells and a clothes-pin, and murmuring to itself, “ Mam-ma! 
mam-ma!” 

“ I’m here, Johnnie,” she cried out. “ Oh, dear, darling 
little baby, mamma is here!” 

And throwing herself on the floor beside the child, she flung 
her arms about his neck, and kissed him with passionate fer- 
vor. 

“ Did you miss me, Johnnie?” she uttered. “ Were you 
lonely without mamma? Did you woftder where she was gone 
to, little love? Did you know she was praying for you all 
night long, and every night?” 

“ Don’t be a fool, Lotty,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, tartly. 
“Now is it at all likely that the child knew any such thing as 
that? Let him alone. You’ll choke him to death. And 
how do you get along up at the Court?” 

“ Has he been good?” Lotty asked, looking eagerly up at 
her aunt’s hard face. She had not heard what Mrs. Macken- 
zie said; she had eyes and ears for nothing but the child. 

“ Oh, good enough,” answered the woman, with a shrug of 
the shoulders. “ I don’t call him a troublesome child, as 
young ones go.” 

“ He — he doesn’t cry much, does he?” Lotty ’s trembling 
voice showed how much she feared the answer to this ques- 
tion. 

“ Lawk, no! I can’t call to mind as he’s cried once since 
you went away, only whimpered a little when he was hungry 
and I forgot to feed him.” 

“ But you mustn’t forget!” cried out Lotty, with crimsoned 
cheeks, and eyes flashing indignation. “ Oh, my poor little 
baby! You said you wouldn’t neglect him. Aunt Phillis!” 

“Lor’, child, don’t be so wolfish. Neglect him, indeed! 
Does be look like a neglected child?” cried Mrs. Mackenzie. 
“But you can’t expect one as isn’t used to children to get 
wonted to all their ways at once. ” 

Lotty had turned to her little one again, and stooping fond- 
ly over him, drew from her pocket a rose-red apple, which one 
of the servants at the Court had given her the day before. 

“ See, Johnnie, what mamma has brought you!” she cried, 
dangling it over his head, and laughing in mirthful echo of 
his laughter, as he stretched out his tiny hands to reach it. 
“ Mamma thinks of you all the time, little pet.”' 

And then, suddenly dropping the apple into his grasp, she 
folded him to her heart again, and showered kisses over his 
face and head. 


claire’s love-lipe. 


91 


“ Give me the brush, Aunt Phillis/’ she exclaimed. “ Let 
me curl his hair just once before I go. You haven’t curled 
it.” 

“ I’ve no time for extra fooleries,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, 
sourly. “If 1 keep him clean and decent, that’s all I bar- 
gained for.” 

While Lotty’s hands lovingly twined themselves in the little 
fellow’s soft, sunny tresses, and she smiled to see the damp 
ringlets one by one curl over his forehead in spirals of gold. 

“ There!” she said. “ Now he looks like his own sweet lit- 
tle self again.” 

And when at last the clock struck six, warning her that she 
had already been absent from the Court more%han an hour, 
she sprung nervously to her feet. 

“ I must go now,” said she. “ Good-bye, Johnnie — mam- 
ma’s Johnnie! If he’s sick, aunt, or if he cries much, you’ll 
be Sure to let me know, won’t you?” 

“Oh, fiddle!” said Mrs. Mackenzie. “You always was 
one to worry, Lotty. And I’m most sorry you came down 
to-night. The child was getting contented, and now he’ll fret 
after you again.” 

Lotty’s lip quivered. “ I should be sorry to think he 
didn't worry after me, aunt,” said she. “ For he’s my own 
baby— all that 1 have got left in the world; and sometimes it 
seems to me as if I must give up place and wages, and every- 
thing else, and come back to Johnnie.” 

“ Then you’re a great fool,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, with 
asperity, as she banged the door behind her niece. 

While the poor young mother, hurrying up through the 
purpling dusk toward the lighted windows of the Court, 
pressed her hand over her heart as if some one had stabbed 
her, and the dagger was yet rankling there! 


CHAPTER XIV. . 

M. BORBOXNEAU. 

Leaving behind him the substantial and imposing fagade 
of Carew Court, Malcolm Aspendale followed the footsteps of 
his little guide through a maze of ornamental shrubbery, and 
across a beautiful park, where large-eyed deer glanced shyly 
at him through a screen of interlacing boughs, until they 
reached a sort of wild and picturesque glen, into which Mr. 
Carew had turned the current of a neighboring brook to form 
a cascade that foamed and tumbled over a mass of moss-grown 
rocks in wild beauty. 


0 2 


CLAIRE’S LOYE-LIFE. 


But this manufacture to order of water-falls was a difficult 
and expensive business, and required the assistance of a 
hydraulic engineer and some twenty men; and, under the 
shade of a mighty ecru umbrella, the banker himself was 
watching the progress of the undertaking, shouting directions 
to the men, and arguing vehemently with the engineer. 

“ That’s him, .sir,” said the little lad, pausing breathless at 
the head of the glen, and pointing downward toward the fig- 
ure under the umbrella — “ that’s the master.” 

Malcolm tossed a silver coin upon the grass. 

“ Run along, then, my little man,” said he; and the boy, 
whose wildest dreams of munificent recompense had not 
soared beyon^ a penny, pounced on the sixpence with a cry of 
delight, and skimmed away like a swallow. 

“ Halloo, Aspendale! it can’t be possible that thifc is you /” 
cried Mr. Carew, heartily grasping the young man’s hand. 
“ Delighted to see you, I am sure. And how are they all at 
Wild Aspens? Almost ready to transfer their quarters to the 
Court, eh?” 

“ They are all well, sir, I believe,” said Malcolm; “ but I 
am not in the -secret of their future movements. To be frank 
with you, I have left Wild Aspens.” 

Carew turned a wondering gaze toward his companion. 

“ Left it?” said he. “ Of course you have, or you 
wouldn’t be here.” 

“ 1 do not mean in that sense,” said Malcolm, feeling him- 
self color to the very roots of his hair; “ I mean that my uncle 
has quarreled with me, and turned me out-of-doors.” 

“ The— dickens he has!” ejaculated old Carew, in amaze- 
ment. 

“ And as 1 chanced to remember the kind offer you made on 
our journey up to London a few days ago — the offer to assist 
me if ever I stood in need — I am here to remind you of it,” 
added Aspendale. 

“ That was right, my boy, that was right,” said Mr. Carew; 
“ when I say a thing I mean it. But this quarrel with your 
uncle— is it past all reconciliation?” 

Malcolm hesitated a second or two. 

“ Mr. Carew,” said he, “I do not see why I should not be 
frank with you, although it is not exactly a pleasant subject 
for me to discuss. The fact is that Lord Aspendale wished 
me to propose myself as -a suitor in marriage to Lady Lydia 
Grafton. I respect the young lady highly, but 1 am lacking 
in those feelings toward her that should actuate any such pro- 
posal, and X could only decline entertaining the idea.” 


claire’s love-life. 


93 


“ And, by Jupiter! you are right; quite right!” exclaimed 
the old gentleman. “ A man can only judge for himself in 
such matters as that. 1 haven't the honor of a personal ac- 
quaintance with my Lord Aspendale, but I hope you’ll excuse 
me for calling him a fool.” 

Malcolm smiled faintly. 

“ Of course,” said he, “I left the Aspens at once; and on 
returning to my chambers in London, discovered a letter from 
my lawyers, sir, notifying me of the failure of an extensive 
mining company in South America, in which 1 had been fool- 
ish enough to invest all my property.” 

“ Bad — bad — very bad,”‘said Mr. Carew, shaking his head. 
“ Never should have all your eggs in one nest, my young 
friend. It’s a business rule of mine never to risk too much at 
once.” 

“ It would have been better for me if 1 had adhered to the 
same principle,” said Malcolm. “ But I did not, and, in 
consequence, I am ruined.” 

“ We learn by experience, young man,” said Mr. Carew, 
“ and* a hard task-mistress she is. Well?” 

“ And so I have come here to ask your kind offices,” sim- 
ply added Malcolm. 

“You are willing to work?” 

“Not only willing, sir, but glad.” 

“ I suppose you would scorn a salaried position?” said the 
old man, looking at him with a curious sidewise glance out of 
his kind, gray-lashed eyes. 

“ On the contrary, sir, I should be thankful to obtain one,” 
asserted Malcolm. “ It is not easy for one who has always 
been certain of an assured position to come down to a question 
of pounds, shillings, and pence, but I fully realize the neces- 
sity of it.” 

“ How would you like to be a secretary?” said Mr. Carew, 
who had been poking in the soft moss with the ferrule of his 
umbrella. “An assistant — correspondent — Useful man — 
amanuensis — everything by turns, and nothing long; at a salary 
of a hundred and fifty pounds a year and your expenses?” 

“ 1 should be thankful to accept any such post, Mr. Ca- 
rew.” 

“Very well,” said Mr. Carew. “/ want such a person 
about me. You want the place. Is it a bargain?” 

Once more the blood rushed into Malcolm Aspend ale’s face. 

“ Mr. Carew,” said he, “ I had thought of no such arrange- 
ment as this.” 

“ Is it not an acceptable one?” 


94 


CLAIRE’S LOYE-LIFE. 


“ Most acceptable, sir, believe me.” 

“ Then it’s a settled thing/’ said the old banker, kindly, 
laying his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “ This is Thursday. 
You are to commence your duties on Monday morning next — 
and very thankful I shall be for some onC to keep an eye on 
those fellows on the grounds when I’m away. How do you 
like my cascade?” demanded he, neryously, anxious to avoid 
Malcolm’s thanks. “ Talk about the completeness of Nat- 
ure — it’s all a mistaken idea, my dear sir, all a mistaken idea! 
Look at ‘this steep gorge of rocks, hidden in trees, walled in 
a superb terrace — look at' this cqjpmonplace little stream be- 
yond. The very idea for a water-fall, and yet, you see. Nat- 
ure never took the hint. 1 am the creative spirit that mar- 
ried foam and spray to rock and gorge. 1 am improving on 
Nature — ha! ha! ha! And now, my boy, ‘you’ll excuse me 
for. a little; time presses, and I’ve got a good many ideas to 
beat into this engineer’s thick numskull of a head before I 
take the. 2:20 train to London.” 

He hurried away, talking in a loud, excited voice as he 
went; and Malcolm Aspendale returned to the Court, with a 
great weight lifted off his heart. 

“ Well?” said Eustace, as they were once more rolling over 
the smooth road, behind ‘Black Eagle. 

“ Well,” responded Malcolm, “ I have met with better suc- 
cess than 1 had hoped for.” 

“ How?” 

“ I am to be secretary to Mr. Carew. I begin my duties 
next week.” 

“Secretary!” contemptuously echoed Eustace. “A sort 
of upper lackey?” 

“ A position,” spoke Malcolm, “ which I am proud to as- 
sume.” 

Eustace elevated his brows scornfully. “ Malcolm,” said 
he, “ you ought to have been a grocer’s son. The blood of a 
long line of ancestors has turned to milk and water in your 
veins. ” 

“ That is a mere matter of taste,” said Malcolm, quietly. 
“To me, a life of honest work is better by far than that of a 
gambler and adventurer about town.” 

Eustace reddened. ' 

“ Every gentleman plays,” said he. 

“I am not so certain of that. Here, Eustace, take my 
ulster — it is too warm for this intense spring sunshine — and I 
can’t let go the reins, with Eagle pulling like this on the bit,” 


Claire's love-life. 95 

As Eustace Aspendale took the coat, and threw it over the 
back of the seat, a photograph fell out of the inside pocket. 

4 4 Halloo!” cried ho, stooping to pick it up from the floor 
of the carriage: 44 what have we here— the Three Graces, by 
Jove!” 

Malcolm held out one hand, a little annoyed that his 
brother should so unceremoniously have discerned this hidden 
treasure of his. 

44 Give it to me,” said he. 

44 Not until Eve had a good look at it,” said Eustace, 
laughing. 

It was a photograph of Lady Lydia Grafton, Miss Colonsay 
and Katherine Carew, taken in a group — a simple production 
from the camera of the Stoke Aspen photographer — but the 
position was good, and the faces spirited and life-like. Lady 
Lydia, in the frankness of her nature, had bestowed one upon 
Malcolm, iu spite of the protestations of the others — and he 
treasured it as his own soul. Lady Lydia was represented 
3 eated, with Miss Carew bending gracefully over her right 
shoulder, and Claire standing at the left. 

44 Halloo!” shouted Eustace, as he studied the three girlish 
faces; 44 how, in the name of Cupid and all his fingers, did 
you scrape acquaintance with Flora Smith? Piquant little 
gypsy! she fairly laughs at me out of the picture.” 

44 Flora Smith?” 

44 Yes, Flora Smith. Didn't 1 speak plainly enough?” 

44 You must be dreaming, Eustace,” said the younger 
brother, tartly. 44 1 know no such person as Flora Smith.” 

44 Then how do you come by her picture?” 

44 1 haven't got her picture, man alive!” cried Malcolm. 
44 Those are the photographs of Lady Lydia Grafton, Miss 
Carew, and one Miss Claire Colonsay.” 

44 Then who is this?” Eustace laid his forefinger lightly 
on the tall, slender figure at the left. 

44 Claire Colonsay, to be sure.” 

44 Do you know her?” 

44 1 have the pleasure of a slight acquaintance.” 

44 Where is she?” 

44 She was at Wild Aspens when 1 saw her last. She is to be 
at Carew Court with the Countess of Littleton in a few days, 
1 believe.” 

Eustace handed back the photograph with a low whistle, 
and a sort of noiseless, inward laugh. 

44 The deuce!” thought he. 44 How things are mixing 
themselves up in this old enchanted palace of a Carew Court. 


CLAIRE* S LOVE-LiFE. 


06 

There’s witchcraft in it, I believe, and I’m very much mis- 
taken if there isn’t a sequel coming to that delicious flirtation 
on board the Calais packet.” 

At this moment Malcolm drew up at a tiny way-side hos- 
telry, which nestled under elms and beeches, to let Black 
Eagle drink out of the brimming rustic trough into which 
trickled a perpetual stream of crystal-clear water, brought 
down in wooden pipes from a hill-side spring beyond. As the 
lounging hostler, who had been half asleep on a sunny bench, 
sprung forward to loosen the check-rein, so that the horse 
could reach the trough and its contents, a heavily bearded, 
s wart-browed man, who sat drinking beer back of a vine-gar- 
landed screen at the left of the inn, rose up from his seat, and, 
parting the morning-glory leaves, cautiously reconnoitered the 
new-comers. Then, sinking back again, he looked into his 
empty pint measure, and began to whistle one or two bars of 
a favorite operatic air. 

Eustace Aspendale started up. 

“ Malcolm,” said he, hurriedly, “ I— I believe I’ll get out 
here. You won’t mind driving back alone?” 

“ Not at all,” Malcolm answered, readily; “ but you’ll find 
it rather a long walk to London.” 

“ Oh, I’m a good walker,” said Eustace with alacrity; 
“ and there’s a fellow here that knows about a horse I’m 
backing for the next Goodwood.” 

“You had a deal better let horses and the next Goodwood 
alone,” said Malcolm, warningly. “ Remember, Eustace, 
that you have no money to lose now.” 

“ All the more reason that I should make some,” retorted 
the elder brother, defiantly, laughing as he sprung out. 

One half minute he stood watching Black Eagle as he darted 
away, tossing his crested head in the air, and scarcely seeming 
to touch his glittering hoofs to the ground. Then he went in 
back of the morning-glory screen, and seated himself opposite 
to the swart- browed foreigner. 

“ Eli, lien , mon ami,” said he in French, “ qve voulez 
voas ?” 

The man bowed low. 

“ 1 have need of monsieur’s good Services,” he answered in 
the same tongue. 

Eustace stared hard at him. 

“ I know the pass-notes,” said he, “ but I don’t know you. 
What is it? Who are you? And how do you come to recog- 
nize me?” 

Without a word the man rose from his seat, and beckoning 


CLAIRES LOVE-LIFE. 


M 


Aspendale to follow him, led the way, limping slightly as he 
went, and supported by a cane, to a little room at the back of 
the bar, where the western sunshine streamed brightly in 
through a lattice- work of strings about which a crop of thrifty 
young scarlet runners were beginning to twine themselves. 
'Whispering an order to a boy, he shut and locked the door, 
and beckoned Aspendale to a seat. The latter started at the 
sound of the key clicking in its wards before it was dropped 
into the stranger’s velveteen pocket. 

“ What is that for?” said he, slowly. 

“ Eor safety, monsieur.” 

Eustace stared, as well he might, for now commenced one 
of the most wonderful transformations he had ever beheld. 
The swart-browed gentleman divested himself with great calm- 
ness, first of his black curling hair, which revealed a closely 
cut crop of light-brown below, then of the heavy beard and 
mustache, which entirely concealed his handsome, sneering 
mouth. Untwisting a scarlet bandana handkerchief from 
around his neck, and flinging off a heavily padded velveteen 
coat, which gave him the appearance of stooping, he went to a 
water-faucet, and, wetting his handkerchief under it, passed 
it carefully over his countenance. The brown d}^e came off 
readily, and he turned to Aspendale with a curious smile. 

“ Do you know me now?” said he. 

“Know you!” echoed Eustace; “of course I know you, 
Victor Kenrick.” 

“ Hush-sh-sh!” The other laid his hand lightly on Aspen- 
dale’s mouth. “ Don’t name any names, if you please. I am 
Monsieur Helier Borbonneau, a poor artist, taking views of 
the Thames.” 

“ Are you mad?” cried Aspendale. 

“ Not in the least, mon ami,” 

“ I thought you were in a New South Wales convict-ship, 
for robbing a diamond merchant in Birmingham. ” 

“ So 1 was. But I didn’t like the business, and I contrived 
to give my keeper the slip. Do you think 1 am the sort of 
man to stay long in a place that I don’t fancy? Then you are 
quite mistaken in my character. Hush!” uplifting a finger, 
“ there is a knock. Be so good, my friend, as to take in the 
ale. I don’t care to be seen just at present.” 

He produced the key, and handed it wittf smiling composure 
to Eustace Aspendale. 

“ By Jove, old fellow,” said the latter, as he obeyed the 
hint, and carefully relocked the door, setting the stone pitcher 
4 


OB . Claire’s love-life. 

of freshly drawn ale on the table, “ if you're not the coolest 
customer I know of!” 

“ To be cool is to be great!” succinctly retorted the older. 
“ Try the ale, won't you, mon garpon ? I can recommend it 
as not bad.” 

Mechanically, Eustace poured out a glassful of the brown 
and foaming beverage, and drank it off. ^ 

“ And what do you propose to do now?” he asked. 

“ 1 propose to get to America as soon as possible,” was the 
serene reply. 

“ But why not now? Man,” cried Eustace, striking the 
table with his closed fist, “ do you know what a frightful risk 
you are running?” 

“ There is nothing you can tell me which I do not know 
already,” quietly answered Victor Kenrick, sipping his ale, 
drop by drop, with a leisurely composure which was strangely 
at variance with the excitement of the other. “If you ask 
why I do not go now, 1 simply answer, because I can't. I've 
neither cash nor credit, Eu^ace.” 

“ But what are you going to do?” 

“I'm going to ask you to lend me some money.” 

“ Then it will be time and trouble thrown away,” hotly re- 
torted Aspendale, “ for I'm a ruined man, no better off than 
yourself.” 

“ Really?” Kenrick raised his brows with an amused ex- 
pression. “ Upon my word, all my friends seem to be in the 
same box. Is it something unlucky about me , I wonder, or is 
it their own personal fault?” 

“ Don't be a fool,” growled Eustace. “ Can not Lotty 
help you?” 

“ Dotty?” 

“ Why, your wife, of course.” 

“ Oh!” said Kenrick, “ I had really almost forgotten that 
Lotty was with me that time we nearly broke the bank at 
Homburg, and you had such a wonderful run of luck. You 
did meet her, didn't you? I don't know r whether she could 
help me or not, and I'm not likely to know, seeing that 1 am 
ignorant of her whereabouts.” 

“ Don't you really know where she is?” 

“ No. How should I?” demanded Kenrick. 

“ I do, then. I saw her this very day,” exclaimed Aspen- 
dale. “ Faith, I'm more ard more convinced every moment 
that fate was in that visit to Richmond this morning.” 

“Saw her?” Kenrick's eyes glistened; he leaned hi® 


claire’s loye-life. 


00 


'elbows on the table, and looked intently at the other. 

Where?” 

“ She was seamstress, or something, at Carew Court, not 
three miles from here.” 

“ Carew Court! The rich London banker’s place?” nodded 
Kenrick. “ Yes, I know it very well. So she’s there, is she? 
And what may she call herself?” 

“ Corey, I think she said— Lotty Corey. She made me 
pledge myself not to betray her; but of course the promise 
couldn’t have reference to her own husband.” 

“ Oh, of course not,” smoothly echoed Victor Kenrick, 
although a cruel light had come into his eyes, and his lips had 
set themselves like, adamant. “ No wife would want to hide 
herself away, as you justly remark, from her own husband. 
The thing is incredible.” 

“ I say, though,” cried Eustace, suddenly, recalling a cir- 
cumstance or two which he had nearly forgotten, “ they did 
use to say, at Baden Baden and those 'places, that you didn’t 
treat her well.” 

“It’s a lie — a black lie!” cried out Kenrick, vehemently. 
“ Did she ever tell you so?” 

“No, of course not; but — ” 

“ Then don’t retail idle gossip,” broke in Kenrick, impa- 
tiently. “ Here, help me with this stuff again.” 

He had drawn a small, flat bottle and a tiny sponge from 
his coat-pocket, and was hurriedly applying the swart dye once 
more to his face and hands. 

“ Now the hair and whiskers,” said he, “ and the shaggy, 
black eyebrows! Eh, mon garpon , it isn’t such a bad disguise, 
is it? If I can deceive you, I would undertake to deceive 
anybody. Give me the coat and the stick. Monsieur Bor- 
bonneau, poor devil, has sprained his ankle and halts a little. 
And now come with me. There’s a bit of woods at the back 
here, where we can be by ourselves, and I have much to say 
to you.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

AT CAREW COURT. 

Three days had elapsed since the events narrated in our 
last chapter, and Miss Carew had at last taken formal posses- 
sion of the home which her father’s care and foresight had 
beautified for her during her absence at school and in Europe. 

“ Do you like it, my darling?” the banker asked, stooping 


100 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


to kiss her forehead as she stood in the superb entrance-hall 
looking around her like one in a dream. 

“ Oh, papa, it is too lovely!” she cried. “ Oh, 1 know I 
shall be happy here.” 

“ Then I shall ask no more,” said Mr. Carew with a sudden 
moisture in his eyes. 

The Countess of Littleton and her party had accompanied 
Katherine to Richmond, and it was the young hostess's first 
care, as well as pleasure, to see them all settled in luxurious 
suites of apartments. 

Lady Littleton was very easily pleased. She was intent, 
just at that time, in dosing herself out of a homeopathic 
medicine-chest, with the aid of a volume on “ Domestic Medi- 
cines,” while poor Claire’s daily duty was to read to her out 
of the “ Life and Works of Hahnemann,” and everything else 
was of little importance. Lady Littleton was a woman who 
was always amusing herself with a perpetual recurrence of new 
ideas. She rode hobbies to death, and then condemued them 
as humbugs. 

“ I wonder, my dear,” said she to Claire, “ if they have a 
homeopathic-pharmacy here? It seems like quite a place.” 

“We can drive around and see to-morrow,” suggested 
Claire, who was getting very tired of Hahnemann and his doc- 
trines. 

“ So we can, as you observe,” said Lady Littleton. “ Or, 
in case of there being none here, we can easily send to London 
for what we want.” 

Lady Lydia Grafton was noisily delighted with the Court 
and all that belonged to it. 

“ The sweetest place I ever saw in my life,” said she. 
“ And 1 am sure the Thames River looks bluer and brighter 
than ever the Lake of Como did, when we were in. Italy. Oh, 
Claire, aren't you glad we came?” 

“ Yes,” Claire answered, rather listlessly. She was getting 
tired of the society of old gentlemen and ladies, and sighing, 
like Alexander, for new worlds to conquer in the shape of 
masculine hearts. She was beautiful, and she knew it; but 
what was the use of being a second Cleopatra, if there was no 
one to appreciate her fresh young loveliness? “ 1 wonder if 
Mr. Carew sees much company, Lady Lydia?” 

“ 1 suppose so,” said Lady Lydia. 

“ Because,” yawned Claire, “ it was so fearfully dull at 
Wild Aspens, you know, after Mr. Aspendale went away.” 

So that when Malcolm made his appearance to dinner on 


claire’s love-life. 101 

the Monday of the following week, there was a general sensa- 
tion of pleasure among the ladies. 

“ Why, it’s my cousin Malcolm,” cried Lady Lydia, upset- 
ting a stand of delicate lycopodium ferns as she rushed for- 
ward with outstretched hands. “ I’m sure no one ever 
dreamed of seeing you here, Malcolm.” 

Claire came forward with a gracious smile of welcome; any- 
thing in the shape of masculine humanity was an agreeable 
variety. Lady Littleton held out her hand from the sofa on 
which she was reclining, with a few softly murmured words of 
greeting. It was true that Lady Lydia had quarreled with 
Lord Aspendale about this young man; but then, after all, it 
was not the young man’s fault, and Lady Littleton was too 
just to visit her annoyance upon the irresponsible cause. 
Katherine alone said nothing, but her color deepened, and 
her limpid blue eyes brightened as she advanced a step or 
two to meet her father’s guest. 

“ Aspendale is my right-hand man now,” said Mr. Carew, 
who had just entered the room in dinner-dress. “We shall 
have him here a great deal, now that he is my secretary.” 

“ Your secretary!” echoed Lady Lydia, who generally spoke 
w r hat was uppermost in her mind. “ Why, I thought Mal- 
colm was rich?” 

“ Riches have wings, my dear,” said the old banker, dryly. 

“ I don’t understand you,” said Lady Lydia, looking ques- 
tioningly from Aspendale to her host. 

“ I am not rich. Lady Lydia,” said Malcolm, conquering 
his momentary repugnance to this public discussion of his 
affairs. “ I was foolish enough to risk my fortune in an un- 
lucky investment— and I lost it. I dare say it served me 
right; but it is none the more agreeable for that. And just 
at present I am earning my living as Mr. Carew’s secretary 
and amanuensis.” 

“Oh!” cried out Lady Lydia. “I’m so sorry for you, 
Malcolm.” 

“7 am not,” said Katherine, softly. 

“ Not sorry!” echoed Lady Lydia. “ Oh, Kate!” 

“ No,” said Miss Carew. “ To me a man is never more a 
man than when he is thrown on his own resources, and stands 
boldly up to fight the world.” 

Malcolm’s eyes glittered as they met the soft orbs of the 
beautiful young blonde who had spoken so spiritedly. 

“ She understands me, at least,” thought he. 

“ Kate doesn’t know much about fighting the world,” said 
Mr. Carew, laughingly, patting his daughter’s shoulder. 


102 


Claire’s love-life. 


“ She is a prodigious theorist — but when it comes to reality, 
that’s quite another thing, eh, Kate? But here’s Parkhurst 
to tell us dinner is served. Malcolm, take your cousin, Lady 
Lydia. Lady Littleton, will you honor me? Kate and Miss 
Colonsay must come by themselves for to-night, and I’ll try 
and provide some more beaus for them before a great while, 
eh, girls?” 

And so the good-natured old gentleman trotted off with Lady 
Littleton’s violet moire-antique robes trailing at his side. . 

Mr. Carew bad scarcely lighted his first cigar after dinner 
when Malcolm Aspendale came into the smoking-room. 

“ I think, Mr. Carew,” said he, “ that you mentioned some 
letters that were to be written to-night.” 

“ Did I say to-night?” said Carew. “ Oh, there’s no 
hurry, no hurry at all. Go and amuse the girls. It’s dull for 
them in such an out-of-the-way place as this. Time enough 
for the letters to-morrow, my dear boy. Tell ’em I am com- 
ing into the drawing-room as soon as I’ve finished my cigar.” 

But what was Malcolm’s astonishment, not to say indigna- 
tion, when, a little later in the evening, the doors of the draw- 
ing-room were thrown open, and the footman announced: 

“ Mr. Aspendale!” 

And Eustace walked in, his handsome face wreathed with 
smiles, his manner all graceful self-possession. 

“ I beg a thousand pardons, Malcolm,” said he, approach- 
ing his brother; “ but there were some letters left at Veru- 
lam’s Inn for you, which I thought might be important, and 
I’ve brought ’em. I hope that I am not intruding.” 

Malcolm’s brow darkened, but there was no help for it, and 
he was compelled to introduce his brother to Miss Carew, the 
Countess of Littleton and her daughter, and last, but not 
least. Miss Colonsay. 

Claire had started unconsciously to her feet as he entered 
the apartment. She had instantaneously recognized the hand- 
some traveler in the seal -bordered cap and coat who had 
crossed with her from Calais to Dover in the steam-packet 
that chilly April night. The color mounted to her cheek in 
rosy carmine waves — the dewy light came into her eyes, mak- 
ing her prettier than ever, as she courtesied deeply in response 
to the introduction. For a second or two she believed that he 
did not recognize her, so completely did he govern the muscles 
of his countenance — but his first sentence undeceived her. 

“ Miss Colonsay,” said he in an under-tone, as he seated 
himself beside her in response to Katheripe Carew’s graciously 


clatke’s love-life. 103 

spoken invitation, “ have you heard lately from our mutual 
acquaintance, Miss Flora Smith?” 

Claire was rosier than ever. 

“ Do you blame me, Mr. Aspendale?” said she, in some 
confusion. 

“ Not in the least,” he answered, smoothly. “ You were 
an innocent lamb, and very naturally considered me a prowl- 
ing wolf. I shall make it my life’s business to convince you 
of the mistake you made.” 

Eustace A spend ale could be very agreeable when he chose, 
and this evening he exerted every nerve to be as fascinating 
as possible, with the most distinguished success. Lady Lit- 
tleton thought him “charming,” Lady Lydia laughed until 
her chest was sore at his humorous anecdotes and mirthful 
sayings; Katherine liked him in her secret soul, because he 
was Malcolm’s brother; and Claire felt that she was only tak- 
ing up the dropped links of an old flirtation, and exulted ac- 
cordingly. 

“If .1 had only known who he was that night,” she 
thought with a pang of regret at the lost opportunity. 

But Mr. Carew did not look so much gratified when he came 
in toward the close of the evening. 

“ I have met the gentleman before,” said he, stiffly, when 
his daughter would have introduced them. 

“ I hope I have not taken an unpardonable liberty in 
bringing my brother’s letters here,” said Eustace, his hand- 
some eyes melting into plaintive mildness. “ To be sure I 
might have mailed them, but I supposed he was in a hurry 
for them, and — ” 

“ Oh, it’s all right, it’s all light,” said the old gentleman, 
a little testily, as he sat down and opened the newspaper. 

“ Malcolm,” said he to his young secretary, when at length 
the guest had taken his departure, “lam sorry your brother 
came here to-night.” 

“You can not be more sorry than I am, sir,” was Mal- 
colm’s quick reply. “ Believe me, it was through no interpo- 
sition of mine. He is my brother, but 1 can not say that 1 
either respect or admire him.” 

“ Well, well,” said Mr. Carew, “ we won’t fret about it. 
1 dare say it makes no difference one way or the other, and, 
after all, we can’t turn everybody out-of-doors that doesn’t 
exactly suit us.” 

But when all the company had dispersed to their various 
rooms, Katherine came to her father’s side, and leaned over 


104 


CLAIKE’s LOVE-LIF0. 

his shoulder, one hand burying itself caressingly in his iron- 
gray hair. 

“ Well, pet/’ said he, “ what is it?” 

“ Papa,” whispered Katherine, “why did you speak so 
crossly to Mr. Eustace Aspendale to-night?” 

“Did I speak crossly?” said Mr. Carew. “Well, to tell 
the truth, 1 was not over and above pleased to see him here.” 

“ Oh, papa! Mr. Aspendale’s brother.” 

“ Brothers are not necessarily alike, my dear,” said the old 
gentleman; “ and this Eustace Aspendale bears the reputa- 
tion of having led a rather wild life.” 

“ But, papa, perhaps he has reformed.” 

“ Perhaps,” assented Mr. Carew, dryly. 

“ And we surely ought to be civil to Mr. Aspendale’s 
brother,” added Katherine. 

“ My dear little girl, 1 don’t believe Malcolm admires his 
brother any more than 1 do,” said Mr. Carew. “ Did }'OU 
ask him to call again?” 

“Yes, papa; wasn’t it right?” 

Mr. Carew gave a little groan. 

“ Oh, well,” said he, “ it can’t be helped. And it may b8 
that we’re misjudging the young fellow. Good-night, my 
dear. It’s nearly twelve, and you’ll miss your beauty sleep if 
you don’t get to your pillow quickly.” 

.And the old banker dismissed his daughter with a kiss. 

Katherine was passing through the wide hall, where the be- 
nign faces of the Blessed Twelve looked down upon her with 
the mild serenity of their impassive marble faces, when she 
became conscious of a slim figure floating up the marble stair- 
case in front of her. She could not repress a little start at 
first, for the servants were never allowed to use this staircase, 
and she knew that every other member of the family, except 
herself and her father, had retired to bed. Carew Court was 
not a sulficiently ancient edifice to boast of a well-authenti- 
cated ghost, however, and Katherine had plenty of nerve, so 
she hurried up the stairs, and called: 

“ Who is there? Where are you going?” 

The face which was turned around at the head of the land- 
ing was very pale, the large eyes humid, with dark circles 
under them, and the curly dark hair which hung over the 
forehead was wet as if with heavy dew. 

“ It’s me, miss — Lotty!” was the faint reply. 

Miss Carew had seen and spoken kindly to the little needle- 
woman very soon after her arrival at the Court. Mrs. Ar- 
buckle had told her that the young person was a skill- 


Claire's love-life. 


105 


ful seamstress, and seemed disposed to do her best; and 
Katherine, always sweet and gracious to her inferiors, had 
spoken a few kind words of praise and encouragement to the 
little creature, who looked to be such a child. What a con- 
trast there was between them as they stood there on the mossy 
Persian rug which covered the landing-place— Katherine so 
tall and queen-like, in her lustrous trailing dress of the palest 
Kile-green silk, with maiden-hair ferns in her hair, and a 
clasp of pallid emeralds at her throat, while a diamond- 
buckled band of gold gleamed on her arm, and her slender 
fingers shone and sparkled with gems — Lotty, so pale and 
slight, in a dress of faded calico, and her large, frightened 
eyes looking imploringly into the young lady’s face. 

“You tremble,” said Katherine, gently. “What is the 
matter? Are you cold?” 

“ I’m not cold, miss, please,” said Lotty, trembling more 
and more, “ but I’m frightened.” 

“ But did you not know,” said Katherine, mildly, “ that 
this staircase was for the use of the family alone?” 

“ I knew it, miss,” said Lotty in a low voice; “ but I was 
locked out of the door that leads to the back staircase, and I 
couldn’t have got in without rousing Mrs. Arbuckle, and she 
would have scolded me so, miss, for being out at this hour.” 

“ And very justly,” said Katherine, with gravity. “ It is 
nearly midnight.” 

“And I thought, miss,” added Lotty, “ that perhaps I 
might come in the front way and slip up this staircase with- 
out being seen. I’m very sorry, miss; it shall not happen 
again, indeed.” 

“Where had you been so late?” said Katherine, who felt 
that she ought not to allow the matter to pass without some 
further questioning. 

“ Only to see my aunt, miss — Mrs. Mackenzie, the head 
gardener’s wife — it’s but a step, ma’am, down through the 
shrubberies. ” 

“ But don’t you know, Lotty,” went on Katherine, “ that 
you are much too young and too pretty to be running about 
the place at midnight? Kay, don’t look so alarmed; 1 am 
not angry with you;‘ I am speaking only for your own good.” 

“ Indeed, miss,” faltered Lotty, “ 1 did not know how late 
it was. Please, please. Miss Carew, don’t tell Mrs. Arbuckle, 
or I shall be turned away.” 

“ Ko, 1 won’t tell her,” said Katherine, pityingly. “ Poor 
child, don’t tremble so, and breathe so quickly. Only re- 
member to be more circumspect for the future.” 


106 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


She passed on, leaving the little seamstress murmuring al- 
most inaudible thanks. But she had not gone three steps be- 
fore a sudden impulse warned her to stop. She looked 
around, and was surprised — almost shocked — to see that 
Lotty had lifted one of the long, trailing folds of her dress, 
and placed it to her lips. 

“ 1 couldn’t help it, miss,” sobbed Lotty, coloring like a 
detected criminal. “ You’re so kind. If all the world was 
like you, miss, there wouldn’t be the trouble that there is.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 
claire’s lovers. 

As the days and weeks went by at Carew Court, Claire’s 
secret longing for social gayety was gratified to its full extent. 
The old banker, anxious to please his daughter and entertain 
his friends, filled the capacious mansion with guests, and gave 
croquet breakfasts, archery parties, picnics, and private the- 
atricals in unintermitting succession. Malcolm Aspendale, 
although his duties kept him in the City during the day, was 
generally with them in the evenings, and Eustace presented 
himself with great regularity, unabashed by his host’s cold- 
ness and his brother’s chill greeting. 

“ I don’t see why one fellow hasn’t as good a right to the 
good things of this world as another,” said he. “ And I’m 
determined to have my innings with the heiress, as well as 
Malcolm!” 

And in the meantime he carried on a snug little under-cur- 
rent of love-making with Lady Littleton’s pretty companion. 

“ She’s a deal more to my taste than a pale, passionless 
statue, like Miss Carew,” he thought, “ but I can’t afford 
to treat myself to any such luxury as a portionless wife — 
more’s the pity.” 

But Claire Colonsay was not one to brook a divided empire. 
She liked Eustace Aspendale — nay, she was beginning to love 
him — and there were times when her heart leaped joyously in 
the glad belief that Eustace returned that love in all its inten- 
sity. 

“ He does like me— I know he likes me!” she would tell her- 
self, sitting, with folded hands, at her casement, and looking 
out over the sparkling blue waters of the Thames. “ He 
only walks with Kate because she is the lady of the house, 
and he must pay her some attention. But he never looks at 
her as he looks at me /” 

And then again, when she could not help perceiving that 


Claire’s love-life. 


107 


Eustace was in earnest in the devoted court that he paid to 
Miss Carew, the demon of jealousy would take possession of 
her, and she would walk up and down the room like a chained 
tigress, with blazing eyes, and lips all scarlet, where she had 
bitten them savagely with her small, white teeth. 

“ What does he mean?” she asked herself. “ Is he mak- 
ing sport of me? Does he think to amuse himself with my 
heart?” 

And poor Lady Littleton found her companion of very little 
service just now. Claire was absent-minded and forgetful. 
She evinced no sort of interest in Hahnemann and his doc- 
trines — and even grew petulant and irritable with the kind 
countess herself. 

“ My dear Lydia,” Lady Littleton said to her daughter, “ I 
don’t know what has come over Claire. She doesn’t adapt 
herself to my moods as she used to do. Her mind is always 
on something else. She neglected to give me my aeonitum 
this morning, and she was to read to me at eleven, but she has 
never come near me. And Jacqueline’s voice never did suit 
me in reading.” 

“ I’ll read to you, Mopsey, dear,” soothed Lady Lydia. 
“ Don’t be worried about Claire — she’s young, you know, and 
she never has had an opportunity to see much company be- 
fore. ” 

“ Yes, my dear, but a companion — ” 

“ A companion is human, like the rest of the world, Mop- 
sey! And look here,” added Lady Lydia, lowering her voice 
to" a confidential whisper,, “ I believe that Claire is in love.” 

“ In love!” echoed the countess. 

“ Yes. With Eustace Aspendale.” 

“ My dear Lydia!” 

“ Well, why not? He is very handsome and very agreea- 
ble, though, in my private opinion, he’s not half as nice as 
Malcolm. But that’s a mere matter of taste, you know, 

7 7 

, Lydia, didn’t you observe how she was walking and 
whispering with Sir Caleb Huron, at the garden-party yester- 
day?” 

“ Oh, that’s all a blind, Mopsey,” cried Lady Lydia, tri- 
umphantly. “ She only wants to make Eustace jealous. 
Don’t you see?” 

Lady Littleton looked admiringly at her daughter. 

“ Em sure, Lydia,” said she, “ I don’t know how you find 
all these things out.” 

g “ It’s instinct, Mopsey,” said Lady Lydia. 



108 


claire’s lov£-life. 


“ Sir Caleb Huron would be called a very good match/’ 
remarked the countess, thoughtfully. 

“ Oh, mamma!” 

“Why not, my dear?” 

“A little insignificant fellow like that, not up to Claire’s 
shoulder, with tow-colored hair and freckles — a man who stut- 
ters, and turns red if one does but look at him!” exclaimed 
Lady Lydia, contemptuously. 

“ Huron Halkis a fine place,” said the countess. “ And I 
used to know the Dowager Lady Huron — a woman of re- 
markable strength of character, it would be a capital alliance 
for Claire, if Sir Caleb really means anything.” 

Evidently Sir Caleb Huron did mean something. He was, 
as Lady Lydia had irreverently described him, small and boy- 
ish-looking, with light thin hair, watery blue eyes shielded be- 
hind spectacles, and a freckled countenance. His teeth were 
not good, and his retreating mouth and chin communicated a 
painful expression of indecision to his countenance. More- 
over, he was distressingly shy, and inclined to be awkward, but 
he was an honest, frank-hearted little fellow withal; and he 
had fallen desperately in Jove with Claire Colonsay at the 
very first instant in which he saw her, playing croquet in a 
rose-colored muslin — Lady Lydia’s gift, out of her own well- 
supplied wardrobe — and floating ribbons to match. And no 
wonder, for Claire looked absolutely glorious at the moment, 
with her cheeks glowing with exercise, her dark eyes spark- 
ling, and a rose pinned into her red-gold braids of hair. And 
as Claire wanted somebody very much, indeed, at that mo- 
ment, to play off against her defaulting swain, she smiled most 
graciously upon the small baronet. 

Little Sir Caleb was in earnest; Claire Colonsay was not. 
All things considered, the game was not exactly equal. 

The June sun had set gloriously behind the trees, the stars 
were beginning to dot the violet dusk with gold, and Claire 
was sitting on a rustic garden-bench, looking dreamily at the 
river as it rippled at her feet. She was dressed in white, 
picturesquely trimmed with bows of pale-blue ribbon, and she 
looked like a fair picture, sitting there in the twilight, as a 
step sounded on the closely cut turf, and Eustace Aspendale’s 
handsome head peeped through the foliage. 

“ Claire,” cried he, “ I’ve been looking everywhere for 
you!” 

Claire looked up, trying to repress the glad welcome that 
flashed into her face and lighted up her pensive eyes. 


CLAlRE’s LOVE-LIFE. 


109 


“ Yes," said she, coldly; “you were very anxious to find 
me, I don’t 'doubt.” 

“ Of course I was, Claire ” — sitting down beside her, and 
possessing himself of one of her hands — “ why are you so cross 
with me? What have I done to deserve your displeasure?” 

“ My displeasure?” 

“ Yes— you have scarcely looked at me, or spoken to me, 
all day.” 

“ Have I not?” said Claire, indifferently. “ It must have 
been because 1 imagined you sufficiently well entertained with- 
out.” 

“ Is that fair?” he asked, reproachfully. 

“ Are you fair to me ?” she flashed out, suddenly. “ I am 
not a plaything, Eustace Aspendale, to be picked up and 
flung aside at any man’s will and pleasure. If you prefer 
Kate Carew to me, say so honestly and I shall not trouble 
you with any more of what you are pleased to term my jeal- 
ousy /” 

“ But suppose I don't prefer her?” insinuatingly whispered 
Eustace, moving still nearer to Miss Colonsay, and slightly 
pressing the hand he held. 

“ In that case,” said Claire, “ your actions belie you most 
falsely.” 

“ Do be reasonable, Claire,” coaxed the young man. “ Do 
you suppose any man in his senses would prefer Miss Carew to 
you? — a pale statue, molded out of snow and marble, to a liv- 
ing, breathing beauty? Believe me, Claire, 1 have better 
taste than that /” 

Claire smiled; her resentment was melting rapidly away un- 
der the sunshine of his flattery. 

“ Eustace,” said she, “ 1 have something to tell you. Sir 
Caleb Huron asked me to be his wife this afternoon.” 

“ Did he?” cried Aspendale. “ Bravo! Then the little 
manikin has a tongue, after all. And what did you tell him?” 

“ Nothing definitely,” answered Claire, studying her 
lover’s face as well as she could in the faint light. “ 1 asked 
for time to consider. ” 

“ There was where you were a little goose, my dear Claire,” 
said Eustace, taking a cigar-case out of his pocket. “You 
have no objection to my smoking, have you? The wind will 
carry it all away to the river.” 

“ How do you mean?” she flashed out, ignoring his last 
question. 

“ You should have said yes.” 


110 CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE* 

Claire Colonsay’s heart sunk like a lump of lead withlr* her 
bosom. 

“ Why?” she uttered, faintly. 

“ Because, my princess. Sir Caleb Huron is rich, and you 
are poor! Because it would be a famous thing for you to 
marry a man who could lift you out of this wretched life of 
drudgery!” 

“ And you can tell me this!” she cried, pressing her hand 
to her throat, as if to still its passionate pulsatio ns. 

“ Yes, 1; why not?” 

“ I — 1 thought you cared for me!” 

“So 1 do, Claire! But Fm not selfish brute enough to 
sacrifice all your prospects to iny own preferences. My little 
jewel ” — passing his arm caressingly around her drooping fig- 
ure — “ I am a poor man, and I would not willingly condemn 
you to a life of poverty. Love is all very well — but you re- 
member the old adage, 4 When poverty comes in at the door, 
love flies out of the window!’ I love you dearly, Claire — I 
have loved you ever since 1 first looked into your eyes that 
starry night on board the Calais packet — but I can’t afford to 
sacrifice either you or myself! My darling, don’t you see the 
common sense of the thing?” 

She lifted her wet eyes to his face. 

“ Eustace,” faltered she, “ 1 would be content to dwell in 
a hovel, and live on a crust of bread a day, for your sake!” 

“You think so now, Claire,” said he, with a shrug of the 
shoulders; “ but you don’t know what you are talking about! 
That sort of thing don’t answer anywhere except in a novel. 
At the end of a year, you would curse me in your heart for 
ruining your life! Be a sensible girl, Claire!” 

“ You — you have known this all along?” said she, in a low 
voice. 

“ Why, of course 1 have.” 

“ You have been aware that our acquaintance could only 
terminate thus?” 

“Certainly. So might you have been, if you had only 
paused to consider.” 

“ Then, Eustace Aspendale,” said she, rising to her feet,, 
her slight frame quivering all over, and the carmine spots 
glowing like fire on either cheek, “ you have been a villain, 
and I deserve this mortification for ever once believing in. 
you!” 

“ Claire!” 

“Don’t call me by that name again!” she flashed out. 
“ Don’t presume to touch my hand. I have had enough — 


claire’s love-life. Ill 

ay, and too much — of your mock devotion! For the future, 
I beg that it' may cease.” 

“ You are cruel, Claire!” he uttered, reproachfully. 

“Cruel! I?” 

She broke from his detaining grasp, and fluttered away 
down the shadowed path that led along the river-side. 

“ Claire!” he called after her; but she neither answered 
nor turned her head. 

“ Little vixen!” he murmured to himself, as, after a moment 
or two of hesitation, he lighted the cigar he had been holding 
all this time, and drew a leisurely putf or two. “ She never 
looked lovelier in her life than she did standing there and de- 
fying me. I really wish I could reconcile it with my circum- 
stances to marry her. But as I can’t, it’s just as well that 
we have come to a plain understanding. The thing might 
have become embarrassing after a little; and the coast is clear 
now for the heiress.” 

And Eustace sat there listlessly, smoking and enjoying the 
fragrance and cool of the evening, while the girl whose heart 
he had so ruthlessly been playing with stood on the bank of 
the river below, wringing her hands, sobbing, and moaning 
like a wild Creature. 

“ What shall I do — oh, what shall I do?” she kept repeat- 
ing, in a low, quivering tone. “ Shall 1 drown myself in 
yonder tides, or shall 1 live on, to show him that I am not 
entirely crushed by his cold, cruel words? Oh! my heart, my 
heart! Oh, my love that is no lover! my treasure that has 
turned to dead ashes in my grasp! For 1 loved him with all 
my soul, and he — he has never once cared for me!” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE ACCEPTED SUITOR. 

Lady Lydia was sitting in her dressing-room at a late 
hour that night; not that she was generally addicted to burn- 
ing the midnight oil, but she had become intensely interested 
in a new novel which Mr. Carew had brought down from Lon- 
don the day before, and could not possibly retire to rest until 
she found out whether the heroine married her true love, or 
ended her days in a lunatic asylum. 

“ Of course, it’s all great nonsense,” said Lady Lydia; 
“ and 1 know it’s only a novel; but, for all that, 1 can’t sleep 
until I know.” 

So she was sitting there, in her white cambric dressing- 
gown, her hair hanging down her back, and her cheeks flushed 


112 claire's love-life. 

with interest and excitement, while Janet, the maid, yawned 
in the inner room, and wondered “ whenever my lady’s bell 
was going to ring for her," when a low tap sounded at the 
door. Lady Lydia started, as if it had been the report of a 
pistol. 

“ Come in," said she, bringing her mind down from a pin- 
nacle of romance with some difficulty. 

And Claire Colonsay entered, pale and beautiful, with her 
garden-hat swinging in her hand, and her white muslin skirts 
stained and bedraggled with dew. 

“ Then there is somebody that stays up later than 1 do," 
said Lady Lydia, with a laugh. “ Sit down, Claire. How 
white and tired you look." 

“ I am tired," said Claire. “ I’ve been making up my 
mind, and that’s awfully hard work." 

“ So it is," assented Lady Lydia. “ But what especial sub- 
ject is it upon which you’ve been tiring yourself to death?" 

“ Marriage," said Claire, briefty. 

“ Claire, you don’t tell me that you and Eustace — " 

“ Who said anything about Eustace?" interrupted Claire, 
shrinking back, as if her words hurt her. “ Is there nobody 
but Eustace Aspendale in the world, I should like to know?" 

“ Lots of people," said Lady Lydia; “ but that’s no reason 
you should be so cross about it." 

“ I didn’t mean to be so cross, ’"Said Claire, apologetically. 
“ But everything seems to sting. and annoy me nowadays.’’ 

“ You are nervous, dear," said Lady Lydia, stroking the 
fair, weary head which Claire had laid in her lap. 

“ Perhaps I am. It doesn’t matter much, anyway. 1 was 
going to tell you. Lady Lydia, that Sir Caleb Huron has asked 
me to marry him." 

“ Oh, Claire! has he? Of course, you said no?" 

“ Why ‘ of course?' ’’ asked Claire, raising her head and 
looking Lady Lydia in the face with eyes that glittered cold 
and hard as icicles. 

“ Because he is such a little ape of a fellow, with nothing 
on earth to recommend him but his money and his title." 

“And aren’t those enough?" 

“ Hot in my estimation. And besides, he’s got a terrible 
old dragon of a mother, w T ho rules Huron Hall, and all be- 
longing to it, with a rod of iron." 

“ I’ll risk that," said Claire. 

“ Oh, Claire, did you say yes?" 

“Ho, 1 didn’t." 

Lady Lydia threw her arms around the girl’s neck, 


claire's love-life. 


113 


“You are right, Claire/' said she. “ I might have known 
you never would have sold yourself for money and station. 
And, indeed, indeed, Claire, you never would have been happy 
with him!" 

“ Now you are going on too fast," said Claire, with a 
laugh, as she put away Lady Lydia's clinging arms. “ I 
didn't say yes, but I am going to. I asked time to consider, 
until to-morrow morning. I have considered, and I shall ac- 
cept Sir Caleb." 

“ Oh, Claire!" 

“ Weil?" defiantly. 

Lady Lydia put both hands on Claire's shoulders and 
looked inquiringly into her eyes. * 

“ Do you love him, Claire?" 

“ No." 

“ Then, don't marry him! For God's sake, Claire, stop 
and think before it is too late! Oh, consider, darling, what a 
frightful thing it must be to be tied for life to a man you do 
not love." 

Claire laughed out a metallic, hard laugh. 

‘‘Love!" echoed she; “love! My dear Lady Lydia, it is 
quite plain that you have been reading a novel. Nobody talks 
about love in these days!" 

“ Claire," repeated Lady Lydia, “ this is no jesting mat- 
ter!" 

“I do not jest. I am quite in earnest," retorted Miss 
Colonsay. “ Lady Lydia, you who are lapped in luxury and 
surrounded by every comfort, are hardly qualified to speak 
dispassionately on this subject. 1 am one of the world's poor 
drudges, exposed to slight and insult, my very daily bread a 
matter of chance and possibility! Is it strange that I should 
seek to escape from a fate like this, even through a mariage 
de convencmce ?" 

“ Yes," cried out Lady Lydia, “ it is strange. It is strange 
that any woman can deliberately barter herself away in this 
manner. Claire, do not decide rashly. Take yet more time 
for consideration before you settle on a matter of such life- 
long importance as this. " 

“ 1 tell you," cried Claire, impatiently, “ that I have de- 
cided. I am going to marry Sir Caleb Huron, and be my lady 
lik # e yourself. " 

Lady Lydia's countenance fell. 

“ Then there's no use in arguing with you any further," 
said she. 


114 


claire's loye-life. 


“ No use iu the world," said defiant Claire. “ I came here 
to be congratulated, not to be quarreled with!" 

“ 1 can't congratulate you, Claire," said Lady Lydia, shak- 
ing her head; “ but I won’t quarrel with you, if I can help 
it." 

“ And you'll come and see me, sometimes, at Huron Hall?" 

“ Oh, yes, of course. But you’ll not be married directly, 
Claire, will you?" 

“ 1 certainly shall not encourage undue delays," said the 
bride-elect, indifferently. “ I marry for a home and rank, 
and I want to take possession of them as soon as possible. 
Now good-night." 

And Claire Colonsav left Lady Lydia to her own reflections. 

“ My little Mopsey was right," thought Lady Lydia, slow- 
ly shaking her head, “ when she said that Claire Colonsay 
had no heart. I didn't believe it, but I might have known 
that my little Mopsey is always right." 

And she went to bed in very low spirits, leaving the third 
volume of the novel unfinished on her dressing-table. For 
Lady Lydia was beginning to comprehend that truth is 
stranger than fiction in this world. 

Sir Caleb Huron arrived punctually at noon the next day, 
and was shown into a pretty little room where no one ever sat 
during the day. Sir Caleb had attired himself with unusual 
Care, but he looked what he was— a sickly, sallow little atom 
of humanity, with weak eyes, and freckles, in spite of diamond 
studs, fine linen and extra broadcloth. He glanced uneasily 
at the mirror as he walked up and down the room, his riding- 
gloves clasped tightly in one hand, and his whip in the other; 
for Sir Caleb was one of those nervous, fussy mortals who 
can never be at their ease without something to handle and 
twist in their fingers, and not always then. 

“ 1 wish I was just an inch or two taller," thought Sir 
Caleb, twitching up his shirt-collar. “ She is such a magnifi- 
cent figure — five feet eight at the very least. And I do think 
that patent lotion hasn’t the least effect in removing freckles, 
in spite of the advertisement. 1 never cared to be a handsome 
man before; but I believe she would like me better if — Ah! 
good-morning, good -morning, Miss Colonsay; your most 
obedient, I am sure!" 

And Sir Caleb turned red and pale as he bowed to his fair 
divinity, standing there so pale and queenly and self-possessed, 
and dropped one glove and the riding- whip in his embarrass- 
ment 

“ Won't you sit down, Sir Caleb?" said Claire. She had 


CLAIMS LOVE-LIFE. 115 

put on a lilac lawn morning-dress, its multitudinous tiny 
ruffles edged with creamy Valenciennes lace, and wore a clus- 
ter of fall purple heliotrope in her bosom. 

Sir Caleb Huron sat down, and then remembering that he 
looked smaller in a sitting posture, jumped up again. 

“ It’s a fine morning, Miss Colonsay!” said he. 

“ Very!” responded Claire. 

And then, despairing of leading gracefully up to the sub- 
ject, Sir Caleb plunged headlong into it, without further de- 
lay. 

“ Have you done me the honor to consider what we were 
speaking of yesterday. Miss Colonsay?” said he. 

“ Yes, Sir Caleb.” 

“ And have you decided?” 

“ Yes, Sir Caleb. I am much obliged for your kind offer, 
and 1 accept it.” 

“ My darling girl!” cried the little baronet, “ how can I 
ever thank you for this?” And he kissed her hand enthusi- 
astically. 

Claire shuddered a little, but she sat quite still and endured 
the caress. 

“ You are sure you love me, Claire?” 

“ 1 have told you that I accept your offer of marriage,” 
said Claire; “ what other proof do you require?” 

“ To be sure — to be sure,” said Sir Caleb, a little awkward- 
ly. “ 1 might have known that. But one can’t always think 
of everything, eh, Claire? particularly at a time like this?” 

He had by this time seated himself on the sofa beside her, 
where the top of his head came about on a level with the crys- 
tal drop that dangled from her ear, and had put one arm 
caressingly about her. Miss Colonsay sat motionless, but she 
did not offer to return any of his endearments. 

“You have made rne the happiest man alive, my dear,” ho 
said, venturing on a little squeeze. “ I shall bring my moth- 
er to call on you this afternoon. She will be so delighted.” 

“ Will she?” said Claire, as if it were rather a matter of in- 
difference toher whether the Dowager Lady Huron was pleased 
or not. 

“ You’ll be glad to see her?” 

“ Oh, of course. ” 

“ And when — pardon my impatience, Claire, but it is un- 
conquerable — when may I call you mine?” 

“ Do you mean when are we to be married?” asked Claire, 
looking him full in the face. 

“ Yes, my own heart’s treasure,” Sir Caleb responded, with 


116 claire's love-life. 

another affectionate pressure of the hand that lay so cold within 
his own. 

“ At any moment you please.” 

Sir Caleb stared. He had always supposed that it was the 
role of the expectant bride to assume a pretty coyness upon 
the subject, and Claire’s frankness rather surprised him. 

“ Then,” said he, “ shall we say this day month? Will 
that afford you time enough to get your things ready— trous- 
seau, I believe the term is?” 

“ Sir Caleb,” saidJdiss Colonsav, her cold, incisive voice 
breaking curiously in on the eager, hurried tones of the little 
baronet, “ I care very little for trousseaus and such nonsense. 
If you really wish to consult my wishes — ” 

“ If, dear Claire!’ 7 

“ You will quietly walk with me into some church near by, 
and be married without any idle show and ostentation.” 

Sir Caleb opened his little weak eyes, until the spectacle- 
glasses seemed hardly large enough for them. 

“But I thought women liked orange-blossoms and veils, 
and all that sort of thing,” said he. 

“ Some women do; 1 do not.” 

“And then, there’s my mother to consult,” added Sir 
Caleb, doubtfully. 

“ Are you marrying your mother or me?” questioned 
Claire. 

“ You, of course, my darling.” 

“ Then why do you not accede to my wishes?” 

“ Dear Claire, you ought to know that your wishes are mine 
in this as in all other respects,” said Sir Caleb, secretly puz- 
zled; “ and my mother — ” 

“ Please don’t mention what I have said to your mother at 
all,” impatiently broke in Claire. “ Let it be a secret be- 
tween you and me, Sir Caleb.” 

She smiled her most bewitching smile as she spoke, and Sir 
Caleb’s freckled face brightened under its influence. 

* “ My dearest Claire,” said he, fumbling nervously in his 
pocket, “ if you would not think I had been too presumptu- 
ous in hoping for your consent, 1 should take pride in present- 
ing to you this seal and token of our engagement.” 

Claire’s eyes fairly sparkled, as he drew forth a hoop of 
gold, set with a superb diamond, and placed it, awkwardly 
enough, but still not without a certain dignity, on her finger. 
Never in all her life had she owned, or hoped to own, a dia- 
mond; and the sight of its corruscating glitter made her covet- 
pus little heart leap wilhin her. 


claire’s love-life. 


117 


“ Oh, Sir Caleb !” cried she, “ how beautiful!” 

And, of her own accord, she put up her rosebud lips and 
gave him a kiss. Little Sir Caleb felt it thrill all through 
him. For, after all, there was a noble and chivalrous soul 
within his stunted and weakly body, and to him Claire Colon- 
say was the purest and fairest of all created women. Claire 
saw the effect she had produced, and took advantage of it. 

“ And now ,” said she, smiling archly, “ will you enter into 
my little secret plot about taking the world by surprise by a 
private marriage?” 

“ When?” said Sir Caleb, surrendering without a struggle. 

“ To-morrow, if you please.” 

“ But, there’s the license, you know.” 

“Oh, what a bore,” said Claire, pouting. “Weil, we 
must wait for the license, I suppose. But there’s no need for 
any additional delay, is there?” 

Sir Caleb’s little blue eyes glistened with satisfaction. He 
was not a conceited man; but what inference could any man 
draw from words like these but that this beautiful girl was 
very much in love with him? 

“ My own darling!” said he, standing on tiptoe to kiss her 
again; “ if you -only knew how anxious I am to call you my 
wife!” 

Claire recoiled a little at the word wife — Sir Caleb Huron’s 
wife — “to have and to hold until death did them part.” 
And as she looked down upon his stooping, ill-made figure, 
his tow-like hair, and winking, watery eyes, and remembered 
the stately beauty of Eustace Aspendale’s magnificent man- 
hood, her heart seemed to grow cold and chill within her. 

She appeared at the lunch-table that day with the great 
solitaire diamond sparkling on her finger; and before night it 
was as well understood through Carew Court that she was en- 
gaged to be married to Sir Caleb Huron as if the fact had 
been printed formally in all the morning papers. 


CHAPTER XV111. 

LOTTY AND HER HUSBAND. 

Lady Huron called that very afternoon to welcome her 
future daughter-in-law formally into the family. Lady Lydia 
Grafton, who chanced to be passing when she was shown into 
the drawing-room, flew upstairs, two steps at a time, to tell 
Claire what was in store for her. 

“ Claire!” cried she, breathlessly, “ you’re to go down-stairs 
at once. The footman is coming with the Dowager Lady 


118 


CLAIRE S LOVE-LIFE. 


Huron’s card; and I can tell you, she’s a regular dragoness. 
Why, she could put Sir Caleb into one oi her pockets, and 
never know that he was there.” 

“ 1 am not afraid of her,” said Claire, carelessly. And 
then, taking the card from the footman’s chased silver tray, 
she added: “ Tell Lady Huron that I will attend her directly. ” 

The Dowager Lady Huron was a tremendous old lady, in a 
rich armure silk, an old-fashioned set of cameos, a rusty 
brown wig, which didn’t match the color of her eyebrows at 
all, and a bonnet which would have given a Parisian milliner 
the nightmare, so extraordinarily was it shaped and trimmed. 
She rose up and saluted her daughter-in-law-elect in a deep 
voice, like a man’s. 

“ So you are Miss Colonsay, my dear,” said she, making a 
great effort to be gracious. Claire inclined her head, and 
seated herself opposite the other as soon as that lady released 
her hand. 

“ My son tells me he is to marry you,” said the old lady, 
still in the same deep voice, as if she were Lady Macbeth, on 
the stage. 

“ Yes,” said Claire, quietly. 

“ I suppose you are very much in lcve with him?” 

“ Is not that of course?” smiled Claire. 

“ Humph — yes, 1 suppose it is,” retorted the old lady. 
“ Caleb is a good lad — a very good lad. Miss Colonsay. He’ll 
make an excellent husband. You’re a lucky girl. Miss Colon- 
say. My Caleb might marry any one he pleased!” 

“ Indeed?” said Claire, repressing a strong inclination to 
laugh. 

“ You are Lady Littleton’s companion, I am told?” went 
on Lady Huron, intently scanning the young girl with her 
eyes. 

“Yes,” said Claire. “And I have been a governess in 
France, and my mother keeps a lodging-house in London.” 

She announced these facts with a malicious delight in the 
effect they produced on the dowager. Lady Huron drew her- 
self up, in unpleasant amazement. 

“ My son did not mention this to me,” said she, stiffly. 

“ Did he not?” said Claire, “lam surprised at that.” 

“ Does Lady Littleton know it?” 

“ Oh, certainly!” 

“ Humph!” commented Lady Huron. “ In that case, 
young woman, you should congratulate yourself upon the ad- 
vance you are now about to make in the social scale. My 
Caleb cares little for the arbitrary distinctions of life, but he 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIEE. 119 

expects to find in his wife all the solid virtues and Christian 
graces. I tfust that he will not be disappointed in you.” 

“ 1 trust so,” said Claire, inwardly adding, “ But I rather 
think he will /” 

“ 1 hope soon to welcome you to Huron Hall,” said Lady 
Huron, looking more like a giantess than ever, as she rose to 
her full height, after a brief conversation on indifferent topics. 

“ Thanks,” said Claire, with a low inclination of the head. 
“ Won't you stay a little longer, Lady Huron?” 

“ Ho, 1 thank you,” said the dowager. “ My time is mftch 
occupied, and every moment is precious.” 

“ Thank Providence for that,” said Claire to herself, as she 
stood on the portico to watch the old-fashioned carriage drive 
off. “ I see plainly that my Lady Huron is one of the typical 
mothers-in-law, who will have to be routed in single combat 
when I reach Huron Hall. N’importe — I think I am equal 
to the task.” 

Eustace Aspendale was in the hall when she re-entered it. 
He held out his hand to her. 

“ 1 congratulate you, Claire,” said he, with easy grace. 
She looked at him haughtily. 

“ You are the last person in the world who should do that!” 
said she. 

“ The first, 1 think,” said Eustace, “ as surely no one can 
feel a greater interest in you and your happiness. Tell me, 
Claire — you are happy?” 

44 As happy as a lark!” said she, lightly, as she tripped past 
him into the music-room, where Katherine Carew was practic- 
ing a difficult fantasia on the piano. 

Scarcely three days had elapsed when Claire came into the 
house, leaning on Sir Caleb Huron’s arm, one bright morn- 
ing. 

“ You are the very person we want, Claire!” said Kather- 
ine, who had taken it as a matter of course that Claire Colon- 
say was to be married from the Court. “ Lydia says that the 
picture-gallery is better capable of decoration than the draw- 
ing-room for your wedding. You shall decide the question— 
which shall it be?” 

Sir Caleb smiled knowingly. Claire laughed. 

44 My wedding!” said she. “ But you are all behind the 
times. I am married already.” 

44 Married already!” echoed the girls in chorus. 

44 We were married in St. Edred’s Church, half an hour 
ago,” said he. “ Claire has come for her things. We are off 
for Dover by this afternoon’s train, and 1 shall telegraph the 


120 


CLAIRE’S LOYE-LIFE. 


news to my mother from London. It was all Claire’s notion 
— not mine. Bat 1 don’t deny that it’s a capital idea. No 
fuss, no confusion, no bride-maids, no wedding-cake, eh, 
Claire, my love?” 

And when Eustace Aspendale happened in to dinner, as 
usual, the first thing that he heard was that Sir Caleb and 
Lady Huron had departed on their wedding-trip. 

“ Indeed?” said he, lifting his handsome eyebrows. 
“ Don’t it seem to you. Miss Carew, a good deal like the old 
stoFy of Beauty and the Beast?” 

‘‘1 do not believe she will be happy,” said Katherine, 
frankly. 

“Nor he, either,” said Mr. Carew. “ That girl has a 
temper like a red-hot coal, and a will like cast-iron.” 

“ How do you know, papa?” asked Katherine, laughing. 

“ Oh, I’m a little bit of a physiognomist,” said Mr. Carew. 
“ Mark my words — it will not be a happy marriage.” 

And in his inmost heart, Eustace Aspendale did not believe 
that it would. 

Claire Colonsay had married Sir Caleb Huron out of pique. 
She had fondly believed that by so doing she would plant an 
envenomed arrow in Eustace A spend ale’s false and fickle heart, 
and she was ready to risk anything — even the happiness of 
her own future — to be revenged. Poor Claire, could she but 
have witnessed the appetite with which Eustace Aspendale eat 
his dinner, the undisturbed sweetness of his slumbers, that 
night, she would have known that it was all in vain. Eus- 
tace Aspendale was one of those thoroughly selfish men whom 
nothing can deeply touch, except a personal calamity to them- 
selves. 

Two or three days had elapsed since the stolen wedding, 
and Katherine Carew was arranging roses in the drawing- 
room, a task which was invariably hers, and which she loved 
dearly. Lady Lydia Grafton sat by, with her chin in her 
hands, and her elbows on one of the polished marque terie 
tables, discussing a stately dinner-party which they had at- 
tended at a neighboring mansion the evening before, and 
Lotty Corey was following her young mistress around with a 
basket on her arm, filled with newly cut roses, whose fra- 
grance loaded the air. 

“ How did you like my dress, Kate?” said Lady Lydia. 
“It was one of Worth’s— but, somehow, Worth’s dresses 
never look on me as they look on other people. ” 

“It was very pretty,” said Katherine, as she lifted the 
tangle of roses, and searched among the fragrant blossoms for 


clairk’s love-life. 


121 

some particular color. “ Lotty, child, there isn’t a single 
Gloire de Dijon rose here. What was Mackenzie thinking of, 
to leave them out, when he knows they are my particular fa- 
vorites? Run out to the rosery — there’s a good girl — and 
bring me a good handful of Gloire de Dijons — buds and blos- 
soms both. ’ ’ 

Away sped obedient little Lotty, delighted to be of service 
to the young mistress whom she had already learned to idolize 
with all her innocent heart. 

The rose-gardens were at some distance from the house, in 
a little vale beyond the hot-houses, where the southern sun- 
shine poured softly down all day, and a marble-rimmed fount- 
ain threw a shower of dazzling mist into the air, which fell 
again with silvery drip into the broad, shallow basin below. 
Roses of every shade and color blossomed here — tea roses, 
cloth-of-gold roses, noisette roses, and remontant roses; 
climbing roses, that formed an archway of bloom overhead; 
standards, that stretched out their clinging tendrils in every 
direction, and great wildernesses of fragrant white blossoms, 
that looked, at this season of the year, as if a shower of sweet 
snow had descended among the leaves. 

Lotty looked around for her aunt’s husband, John Macken- 
zie. He was nowhere to. be seen. She called his name aloud, 
but no answer was returned. 

“It makes no difference,” she thought, “1 know where 
the Gloire de Dijon roses are and I’ll cut them myself.” 

She was busy clipping among the stems, with a pair of scis- 
sors that hung always at her side by a cord, when a footstep 
close by startled her, and turning, she saw a bent figure, 
whose bearded face was almost hidden by a broad-brimmed 
hat. 

“ Charity, pretty lady!” whined a voice. “ Only a penny 
to the poor old soldier!” 

“ 1 have no money,” said Lotty, trembling in spite of her- 
self. “ We give nothing to strolling beggars here. You had 
better not let one of the men see you here, or—” 

“ Or there might be trouble, eh, Lotty?” interposed the 
stranger, in quite a different voice, as he pocketed his beard, 
and pushed his hat onto the back of his head. “ You 
needn’t be afraid, my girl; it’s none of the men that I’m 
after.” 

The basket of roses fell from Lotty’s hand. She uttered a 
piercing shriek: 

“ My God! it is Victor!” 

He clapped his hand angrily over her mouth. 


122 


claire’s love-life. 


“ Are you mad, woman?” cried he. “ Do you want me to 
be hanged?” 

!S.he stood still now, pale and trembling, with her rosy lips 
white, and her big black eyes fixed upon him with the terrified 
and intent gaze of some poor bird fascinated by a serpents 
baleful glare. He laughed a low, taunting laugh. 

“ I’ve taken you by surprise, eh, have I?” chuckled he. 
“You thought f was safe and sound on the other side of the 
world, with bracelets on my legs, and a head close-shaven, for 
the sake of coolness and comfort. You were beginning to 
look out for number two, now, weren’t you, Lotty?” 

And he chucked her insultingly under the chin. 

“ Why are you so silent?” he resumed, impatiently. 
“ Why don’t you say how delighted you are to see me again?” 

She opened her dry lips once or twice before any sound 
issued from them. 

“I am glad that you are alive and well, Victor,” she said 
at last, huskily. 

“ I believe from my heart that you lie, girl!” said Victor 
Kenrick, his eyes blazing angrily into hers. “ Where’s the 
child?” 

“He — he is dead!” Lotty answered, almost inaudibty, as 
she buried her face in her hands. 

“Dead, is he? Well, so much the better,” snarled Ken- 
rick. “ You never were of a particle of use while you had 
that baby whimpering in your arms; and a child, at best, is 
nothing but a dead weight on people. Come, Lotty, what 
are y6u standing there for? Why don’t you ask me how I 
got away? Why don’t you ask me where 1 am staying now? 
— whether I’m well off as to money matters? Why don’t you 
put out your hands, as a true wife should, and say, ‘ I’m ready 
to go with you to the end of the world?’ ” 

The woman recoiled with a shudder. 

“ What good could I do, Victor?” said she. “ You told 
me long ago that I was nothing but a clog upon your move- 
ments. You turned me out-of-doors — me and the baby — be- 
fore he was a month old. God help us both!” 

“ You’ve a good memory, haven’t you, for our little mar- 
ried felicities?” sneered Kenrick. “ But you don’t say how 
you tried me with your tears and your whining, and vour 
pale, pietty face always looking reproachfully at me. That’s 
not worth mentioning,. I suppose?” 

“ And,” went on Lotty, unconsciously wringing her hands, 
“ I’m in a decent place now, where I’m earning my own liv- 
ing. You wouldn’t have me leave it, would you, Victor?” 


Claire’s love-life. 


123 


“ How much do they pay you?” he asked, abruptly. 

“ Five pounds a quarter,” she answered, faintly. 

“ And how much of it have you laid by for your lawful 
husband?” 

<fc I’ve only been here a little while,” Lotty answered, 
tremulously, “ and I haven’t saved anything yet.” 

“ I’ll go bail you haven’t,” sneered the man. “ Let a 
woman alone for throwing her money right and left when 
once she gets the chance. They’re not one of ’em fit to be 
trusted with a single copper. Well, I’ll tell you what, my 
lass, money I want, and money I must have, and if you 
haven’t got it yourself — as 1 might have known would be the 
case — why, you must come help me to get it!” 

“ 1 help you, Victor?” echoed Lotty, in troubled surprise. 
“ How can I?” 

“ There are ways enough. You say you are in service up 
at the big house yonder. Well, there’s money enough there, 
I should judge, by the looks of things!” 

“ Yes, but, Victor — ” 

“ Well?” 

“ It — it isn’t ours.” 

He sneered. “ Did you ever hear of the Agrarian law, my 
dear?” 

“ No,” she answered, innocently. 

“ Well, it’s the sort of law I believe in. It’s share and 
share alike, my dear! And it’s what I’m going to practice 
one of these fine nights, when you let me in to look about a 
bit at the pretty things you’ve got up there.” 

“ Do you mean — ” 

Victor Kenrick shrugged his. shoulders resignedly. 

“ There’s no improvement for the better, I see,” said he. 
“ You’re as stupid as ever, Mrs. K. I mean to crack the crib, 
I and my mates. Now do you understand me?” 

“ Oh, Victor,” cried out the poor girl, falling on her knees 
among the scattered roses. “ Oh, my husband, surely, sure- 
ly you have not come to this! You were a gambler always — 
but you never were — a thief!” 

“ Needs must, when the devil drives,” retorted Kenrick, 
carelessly. “ Get up, girl, and don’t make such a confound- 
ed noise. You’ve nothing to do with the matter, one way or 
the other. All 1 want of you is to leave some door open 
handy, or borrow one of the keys just long enough for me to 
copy it neatly!” 

Lotty had risen to her feet, and ^stood there confronting 
him in a sort of pale frenzy. 


in 


claike's love-liee. 


“ Victor,” said she, speaking between her clinched teeth, 
“ what do you take me for?” 

“ For a sensible woman, my dear.”- 

“I am neither a thief nor a companion of thieves,” said 
she. “ And I will never soil my hands with such work as you 
ask of me!” 

“ You're a choice specimen of womankind, aren’t you, my 
dear?” snarled Victor Kenrick. “ A pure lily — a spotless 
snow-flake! Look here, girl ” — grasping her arm as in a vise 
— “ you shall do what 1 command you! Who are you, to dare 
oppose your puny will to mine? Do you hear me? You shall 
do it!” 

“ Never!” she gasped. “ Not if you kill me first!” 

“ By Jove!” he uttered, his brows glooming savagely, “ you 
had better be careful what you say, young woman. I would 
as lieve kill you as wring a chicken’s neck!” 

But still she looked clauntlessly into his face, the white ter- 
ror in her cheek strangely contrasting with the defiance in her 
great luminous eyes, and repeated: 

“ Never!” 

“ This is all nonsense,” said Victor, angrily. “ Leave off 
that parrot cry and listen to reason. You must help me, or 
I'm ruined!” 

“ Not in that way, Victor,” she persisted. “ Never in that 
way.” 

“ But I tell you, there is no other way. Do you want to 
see me transported again? I believe in my soul you do.” 

“Oh, Victor,” she sobbed, “don't speak so cruelly! I’ll 
ask Mrs. Arbuckle to advance me a month's wages. I'll — ” 

“ You are talking like a fool!” he ejaculated, grasping her 
wrist until she could not repress a cry of pain. “ You know 
perfectly well that your paltry shillings and pence can do me 
no good. But it's like a woman to be willing to do just what 
nobody wants of her. You can only help me in the way I 
pointed out. Once again — will you do it?” 

“ No!” she uttered, faintly yet firmty. 

“ Then, by the heaven that is above us both. I'll murder' 
you!” 

He seized her throat, as if he meant to put his threat into 
instant execution; under the iron pressure of his fingers the 
faint cry for help that she would have uttered died into a 
strangled whisper; and there is no telling what might have 
been the result of his insane anger if the voice of John Mac^ 
kenzie had not been heard j ust then in the nearest hot-house, 


Claire’s love-life. 125 

giving some directions to an underling about cutting grapes 
for dessert at the Court. 

“ Davie, yagawk, will ye never understand?” roared Mac- 
kenzie, who always grew Scotch in proportion as he grew 
angry. “ Why dinna ye take them bunches as is nearerst the 
glass, an’ does no’ show from the walks? If I’ve tauld ye 
once, I’ve tauld ye a hunner times.” 

Victor Kenrick loosed the grasp on his wife’s throat, which 
might have been fatal in another second, and hurriedly re- 
suming his disguise, vanished among the overhanging thickets 
of roses. But as he disappeared from sight, he half turned 
around, shook his finger threateningly at her, and hissed out 
the monosyllable: 

“ Beware!” 

And John Mackenzie, coming out of the Black Hamburg 
grapery, was astonished to find a slender figure lying just be- 
yond the fountain, among a tangle of scattered roses. 

“ Hech, sir, and what have we here?” said honest John. 
“As I live, it’s my wife’s niece! Stand up on your feet, 
henny, stand up on your feet,” added he, assisting her care- 
fully to her footing again. “ There, let me wet your hair 
with the water, and you’ll feel better directly. What was it, 
lass? A dizziness? And what for are ye lookin’ up and 
around, as if ye expected to see a bogey?” 

“ It was a dizziness,” said Dotty, eagerly. “ I — 1 am bet- 
ter now. Let me pick up the roses I’ve dropped — let me 
hurry in to Miss Kate.” 

Mackenzie stood gazing after her as she hurried away. 

“ I doubt she winna be good for much in service,” said he 
to himself, with a shake of the head. “ I doubt she’s a weakly 
creature, at best.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE ABDUCTION - . 

While poor Dotty was coming slowly and by painful de- 
grees out of the swoon into which she had fallen, her vaga- 
bond husband was plunging through the* thickets of interlac- 
ing shrubbery into the secluded path that led to the river, 
where he had moored a tiny row-boat ere he made this bold 
and successful attempt to gain an interview with the wife who 
feared him with such an agony of fear. But the path, in- 
stead of conducting him directly to the river-side, seemed, on 
the contrary, to lead him further and further into the grounds. 


126 


Claire’s love-life. 


“ Confound it!” he muttered darkly to himself, “ can it be^ 
possible that I’ve lost my way in a hole of a place like this?” 

But as he formed the question in his mind, he emerged, all 
of a sudden, from a clump of dark-leaved American laurels, 
with a little green slope bright with circular beds of verbenas 
and gray petunias, at the back of a tiny red-brick house, whose 
walls were mantled to the very eaves with ivy— the domicile 
cf the head gardener, from whose scrutinizing eyes Victor 
Kenrick had just had so narrow an escape. 

The back door was wide open, the eastern sunshine stream- 
ing brightly upon the red-brick floor which it was Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie’s pride to keep so brightly scoured; but there was no 
one there but a little child playing on the grass near the door- 
step — a little bareheaded child, with a head covered with clus- 
tering golden hair, and a rosy, dimpled face — Johnnie’s very 
small self exulting in the possession of a small sleek kitten, 
which he had just succeeded, after infinite pains and trouble, 
in capturing, for the kitten was quick and agile, while 
Johnnie made his way on, his hands and knees with laborious 
slowness, and invariably caught a tumble whenever he tried 
to stand alone by the aid of a chair or table; for Johnnie, 
poor little soul, was but a beginner in the world’s great sys- 
tem of problems, and understood nothing at all of the theory 
of gravitation. And the kitten had a way of doubling on 
itself at a second’s notice, and would make its appearance, 
most unexpectedly, at the other end of the room just as 
Johnnie was slowly lifting up the little fat hand under which 
he was morally sure that he had imprisoned his velvet-coated 
friend. But he had captured it at last, and sat there, 
chuckling and laughing, with the kitten nestled up against his 
face, as pretty a specimen of baby bloom and freshness as, 
need be. 

Victor Kenrick started as he looked at the child from un- 
der whose golden lashes Lotty’s dark eyes looked out at him 
so fearlessly. 

“ Halloo!” he exclaimed, under his breath, “ the little 
hussy was fooling me all the time! And the brat isn’t dead, 
after all!” 

He advanced a pace or two, looking covertly about him. 
But he need not have been afraid. Mrs. Mackenzie had 
“ just stepped ” up to the bleaohing-ground beyond, to have 
a chat with one of the laundrv-maids, and beyond Johnnie 
and the 'kitten, and the thrush who was singing his sweet 
heart out in the window, there was not a living creature about 
the place. 


Claire's love-lire. 127 

“Halloo, my little man,” said Victor, approaching the 
doorstep with an insinuating air. 

“ Me Johnnie,” said the child, shyly retreating behind his 
curls and showing a double row of tiny pearls of teeth 
Where’s your mother?” 

“ Mamma gone!” said Johnnie, shaking his head. 

“ Where has she gone to?” 

“ Mamma come back pretty soon,” added Johnnie, sol- 
emnly. 

“ Where’s all the rest of the folks, then?” 

“ Me Johnnie,” said the child, reverting to his first 
formula of words. “ Johnnie dot titten.” 

Kenrick peeped furtively into the open door. Not a soul 
was visible. Then he came back to the little child and 
stopped over him. Johnnie stared him in the face with un- 
ruffled solemnity. 

“ So you’re Johnnie, eh?” said he. “ What’s this pretty 
thing you’ve got around your neck?” 

“ Johnnie dot titten!” said the little fellow, hugging the 
kitten closer than ever to his cheek, while Kenrick took hold 
of a black velvet ribbon, half hidden in the creases of the fat 
neck, and drew forth at its end a little silver locket, bruised 
and battered and dented with many inapressions of tiny teeth. 

“ 1 — thought— so!” he muttered, with an evil smile over- 
spreading his countenance. “ 1 was pretty sure I couldn’t be 
mistaken in those eyes — and this Milanese trinket makes as- 
surance doubly sure. So you thought you were hoodwinking 
me nicely, my lady Lotty! You supposed you had hidden 
away your boy where nobody could find him, and you were 
going to keep his very existence a secret from me! -Dead, was 
he? Take care your trickery don’t react upon yourself, ma- 
rt ame. 1 rather think I see my way clear to a particularly 
good check upon you.” 

As he stooped by the little fellow’s side, with the battered 
circlet of silver still in his hand, the kitten gave a bound and 
darted away, with its tail very much on one side, as if chal- 
lenging another race. 

“ Titten done away,” gasped Johnnie, aghast. “ Johnnie 
dot no titten.” 

“ Never mind, Johnnie,” said Victor, lifting the baby in 
his arms. “ We’ll go and find another kitten.” 

The little fellow put both arms trustingly around the neck 
of his unknown father, with a crow of satisfaction, and with 
long, stealthy strides Victor Kenrick disappeared once more 
into the deep shadows of the thicket of American laurels. 


128 


claire’s love-life. 


Harrying down toward the river shore, he made his way suc- 
cessfully and without interruption to the spot where, in 
audacious defiance of the placard, “Ho Trespassers,” he had 
fastened his little boat under a canopy of long green willow 
trees. And in another moment he was pulling with power- 
ful strokes toward the middle of the stream, while little 
Johnnie, seated on his father’s folded coat, at the stern of the 
boat, was staring around him with eyes bigger and rounder 
than ever. 

“ Me Johnnie!” he uttered, plaintively, half disposed to be 
frightened. “ Me want titten. Me want me mamma.” 

But Victor Kenrick, bending to the oars, with his lowering 
face turned away from the child, heard not a word of its baby 
prattle, so intent was he on his own sinister thoughts. 

“ I’ve got a hold on you now, my lofty lady!” he kept re- 
peating to himself. “ I rather think I’ve got a bit and bridle 
between your teeth now by which 1 can turn you whatever 
way I please.” 

He rowed something like a mile up the river, and then, 
leaping out, fastened his boat by a rude iron chain to a post 
upon the bank, and took the child in his arms. Johunie had 
fallen fast asleep, with his rosy cheek pillowed against the 
coat, and Victor Kenrick took care not to disturb his slum- 
bers. 

“ For if the young chap should get to crying,” said he to 
himself, “ I don’t think I should have much patience with 
him. A whimpering woman and a squalling child are things 
that no man can stand, unless he’s a blood relation of Job.” 

There was a little railway station about an eighth of a mile 
from the spot where he had moored his boat, and Victor Ken- 
rick was lucky enough to find himself just in time for the 
train that was speeding from the heart of London out into 
the green, stilly peace of the rural districts. He stepped into 
a third-class carriage, after having taken a ticket for Deep- 
vale; and it was well on in the afternoon when he presented 
himself at a comfortable old country inn, all gable ends and 
chimneys, that looked as if a miniature village of different 
sized and styled buildings were consolidated in one. A few 
rough-looking men, who bore the aspect of day-laborers and 
navvies, were lounging about the door, and some others were 
playing cards inside. A careworn, respectable -looking wom- 
an sat at her needle- work in the bar; she rose, in evident sur- 
prise, at the entrance of the bearded stranger with the helpless 
little bundle in his arms. 


CLAIRE ? S LOYE-LIEE. 


129 

“ Why, Monsieur Borbonneau!” she cried; “ sure, it ain’t 
never you!” 

“ It is I, madame,” Victor answered, in the strong French 
accent which he could feign so admirably. “ May I hope that 
madame remains well, and her husband most excellent?” 

“ So, so,” said the landlady. “ Jenks has gone to London 
to-day, or I shouldn’t be here, tending bar. I’d most given 
up ever seeing you again, monsieur.” 

“ Madame has misjudged me,” said Victor, gravely. “ Lid 
1 not tell madame that I would return? and Emil Borbonneau 
never yet forfeited his word.” 

There’s a plenty of ’em as does,” said the landlady, with 
a shrewd lifting of her sensible eyebrows. “ And how was 1 
to know as you was anyways different from the rest?” — 

Silently the soi distant M. Borbonneau put his hand into 
his pocket, and produced a shining gold piece. The landlady 
tested it between her teeth, and rang it on the counter, before 
she dropped it into the till and counted out the change. 

“ I’ll give you a receipted bill presently, mounseer, for your 
little account,” said she. “ You’ll take a glass o’ beer, won’t 
you? Dear me, what have you there?” as the bundle, that 
had hitherto lain so motionless over M. Borbonneau’s shoul- 
der, stirred a little. “ You don’t say it’s a — child?” 

Victor uncovered the dimpled face, around which the clus- 
tering curls made a golden framework. 

“You say truly, madame,” said he, pathetically. “A 
child. My child. Alas, madame, you see before you a 
wretched widower!” 

It would have been an acute observer who could at that 
moment have distinguished the imitation sob that Victor Ken- 
rick gurgled out of his throat from the real, article. Kind' 
Mrs. Jenks was melted at once. 

“Pretty dear!” said she, viewing the child with the 
warmest interest. “ And so it hain’t no mother, worse luck! 
What be you going to do with it, mounseer, if I make so bold 
as to ask?” 

‘ ‘ Madame, 1 have come to throw myself upon your charity,” 
answered the interesting exile. “ Not the charity of your 
purse — for Providence has blessed my poor efforts of late — but 
the charity of your motherly heart. You are a mother, ma- 
dame, if I do not mistake?” 

“ Of nine,” said Mrs. Jenks, heartily. “ Dear, yes. And 
my oldest daughter has two herself!” 

“ Then you will understand the tumult of my harrowed 
feelings,” said Victor. “ What I want to know, madame, is 

& . ^ 


130 


CLAIRE *S LOVE-LIFE* 


whether you will take my motherless little angel and care for 
him until I can myself provide a home? 1 am willing to pay 
you whatever allowance, by the week, may seem fitting to 
your wisdom and experience. ” . ^ ' 

“And that wouldn’t be much,” said Mrs. Jenks, kindly. 
“ Only look, pretty dear, lie’s a-wakin’ up, and a-rubbin’ of 
his eyes like any think!” 

It was true; As she spoke, Johnnie struggled up into a sit- 
ting posture in his father’s arms, and looked around with 
large, pleading eyes, like wells of jetty light. 

“ Me Johnnie!” said he, with a quivering lip. “ Me wants 
me mamma!” 

Mrs. Jenks, who had the softest of hearts (except where un-. 
paid scores and tavern bills were concerned, in which cases she 
became granite), burst into tears. 

“ Oh, the poor little bright-eyed lamb!” said she. “ Give 
him to me, mounseer — I’ll be bound l 9 ll stop his crying!” 

And, willingly enough, Victor Kenrick allowed himself to 
be relieved of the little burden of warm, human life that he 
had carried until his stalwart arms ached. For a healthy 
child of eighteen months old is no light weight to carry half a 
mile or so! And the next moment Mrs. Jenks was stuffing it 
with barley drops and lollipops behind the bar-shelf. 

“ Polly,” she called to one of her daughters, who was lin- 
gering suspiciously near the bar-door, “ bring a drop of warm 
milk, sweetened the least bit in the world, and a bit of new 
bread, d’ye hear? I’ll go bail the blessed little creetur’s hun- 
gry enough to eat his own finger ends off. ” 

And little Johnnie verified Mrs. Jenks’ words by eating and 
drinking as if he had been in a starvation state for six weeks, 
and, immediately after, dropping serenely asleep in her arms. 

“ You needn’t be afraid, but that me and my girls’ll take 
good care of him, Mounseer Borbonneau,” said Mrs. Jenks, 
with tears in her eyes. “ And I’m much obleeged for the ad- 
vance on account, and if anything should happen, or the dear 
little boy should be sick, my daughter Polly, as is a real scol- 
lard, though I says it as oughtn’t to, will drop you a line to 
the London address. You’re sure you won’t stay and have a 
rasher o’ bacon and a mug of ale with Jenks, when he gets 
back by the 4:50 train? He’d be main glad to see you, 
mounseer, my man would!” 

But none of Mrs. Jenks’ hospitable entreaties could induce 
the interesting widower to prolong his visit at the Rising Star 
Inn, and the good woman looked with still suffused eyes after 
his retreating figure, as it strode off in the direction of the 


claire's loye-life, 131 

railway station, saying to the “ real scollard," who stood on 
tiptoe to peep over her shoulder: 

“ If ever there was a man as is all heart, it's that Mounseer 
Berbonneau!" 

Polly Jenks laughed. 

“ You're a-talkin' main different from what you did yester- 
day, mother," said she. “ You was a-tellin' father as you be- 
lieved mounseer was an up an' down swindler, and you never 
expected to see the color of his money again." 

“ Polly," said the elder woman, solemnly, “ that shows the 
folly of lettin' your tongue run loose. Don't you never do it, 
my girl!" 

“ But ain't he pretty, though, mother?" said Polly, bend- 
ing with an ecstatic face over the sleeping baby, who had 
been comfortably cuddled in a capacious cushioned arm-chair 
in the bar, and covered with a shawl. “ And ain't it queer 
that mounseer never said nothing about his clothes?" 

“ Men don't think of such things, Polly," said Mrs. Jenks. 
“ 1 dessay he'll send us a bundle or something, and in the 
meantime we must borrow some of Minny Ann's eldest boy's 
things. They'll not be a bad fit!" 

* * * * * * * 

Mrs. Mackenzie had an excellent chat with Lucy, the laun- 
dry-maid, an elderly and acrimonious person, who took the 
same generally unfavorable view of human nature as did the 
head gardener's wife, and between them both they had torn 
the characters of most of their fellow-servants to tatters, be- 
sides a sly stab or two at those still higher than themselves in 
the social scale, before Mrs. Mackenzie bethought herself that 
it was high time to return to her domestic bower. 

“ And ye'll be sure to come to tea Friday night. Miss 
Lucy?" said she. 

“I'll not miss it, Mrs. Mackenzie, ma'am," said the laun- 
dry-maid, “for, as 1 often says to Mrs. Arbuckle and the 
other servants, your place is that tidy, and your housekeeping 
that nice, as it's a regular treat to be invited there. No, Mrs. 
Mackenzie, I'll not miss it on any account." 

“ You're very kind, I'm sure, to say so. Miss Lucy, and I 
only wish as it was deserved," simpered the gardener's wife, 
in a delightful flurry of self-satisfaction, as she courtesied her- 
self out of the bleaching-ground, and hurried off home to get 
the bit of meat stewing for Mackenzie's noonday dinner. 

Apparently, all was as she had left it— the kettle simmering 
on the hob, the sun streaming into the back door, the thrush 


132 


Claire's love-life. 


singing in the window — with the single exception that Johnnie 
was nowhere to be seen. 

“Johnnie!" she called, sharply; “Johnnie, lad, where are 
you hidin'? Bother that boy; as sure as ever I steps across 
the threshold, he's safe to get into some mischief or other. If 
lie's got down among Mackenzie's cold frames and bell 
glasses, 1 shall never hear the last of it. " 

She began to look for the missing child at once; but the 
search, though prompt and systematic, was of no avail. In _ 
the house or on the lawn, behind the cold frames, or under 
the trailing Kilmarnock willows, no little Johnnie was to be 
found. 

“ Drat the child!" said Mrs. Mackenzie, aloud, in her con- 
sternation; “ it ain't possible as he's gone and drownded him- 
self in the river." 

But the little iron gate that guarded the approach to the 
river-path was shut and latched as Johnnie never could have 
shut and, latched it, and the cold 'fear which had griped at 
Mrs. Mackenzie's heart subsided a little. 

“ Then, where is he?" said she to herself. “ I'm blest if 
ever I takes a child to mind again. They're more trouble 
than they're worth, a deal. There's Mackenzie a-comin' now. 

I won't let on as the child has strayed away, or he'll be 
a-ratin' of me within an inch of my life. 1 dare say he's 
crept away somewhere, and gone to sleep; a bad penny always 
returns, that's one comfort, and I needn't fret myself." 

“ Where's Johnnie?" was the first question that the good- 
natured Scotchman asked, as his foot crossed the threshold; 
for the baby and he had become stanch friends and-allies, 
even in the brief time that the little fellow had been sojourn- 
ing under his roof. 

“ He's safe enough," retorted Mrs. Mackenzie. “ Sit up 
and eat your bit of victual now, afore it's as cold as a stone. " 

“ Asleep?" said the head gardener, instinctively lowering 
his voice, as he moved his chair up to the table. His wife 
grunted some inaudible reply, as she stooped to pour the tea 
into a block-tin pot on the hearth, and John Mackenzie knew 
better than to ask his. spouse to repeat what she had said, and 
dined quietly, without any more reference to the obnoxious 
subject. 

When he had gone, Mrs. Mackenzie renewed the search with 
greater energy than ever, for, careless and indifferent as she 
was to her tiny charge, a feeling of vague terror had begun to 
take possession of her mind — a troubled idea that all was not 
right. And when, at dusk, she had not succeeded in finding 


claire’s loye-life. 


133 


Johnnie, or any trace of him, she sat down and began to 
wring her hands, and sob, and moan. 

“ He : s gone, as sure as fate!” she wailed out. “ He’s lost, 
or drownded, or something — and what ever shall I say to 
Lotty?” ‘ 

Almost at the same moment a light step fell on the outer 
door-stone, and Lotty herself hurried in, with cheeks like 
cherries and smiling lips. 

“ Where is he, Aunt Phillis?” she cried. “ Where’s 
Johnnie? I can’t stay half an hour, and I’ve bought a little 
jumping-jack for him. Only see here!” 

She stopped short at the sight of her aunt rocking herself to 
and fro, with tear-stained cheeks and wan countenance. 

“Aunt Phillis,” cried she, clasping her hands over her 
heart, “ speak quickly! What is the matter? what has hap- 
pened to Johnnie?” 

“He’s gone!” sobbed Mrs. Mackenzie. “He’s lost; and 
I don’t know what’s become of him!” 

Lotty gave a shriek which seemed to penetrate through the 
very ceiling of the room, and fell like one dead on the floor, 
at her aunt’s feet. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE BRIDE’S HOME-COMIHG. 

“ I wohder what on earth keeps them?” said the Dowager 
Lady Huron, impatiently. 

She was walking up and down the room like a man, with 
her chin in the air and her hands clasped behind her back — 
and any person gifted with an imaginative nature would in- 
stinctively have thought of an ogress in her castle, so grim 
was the Dowager Lady Huron, so gloomy the great room, with 
its dark walls, thick moreen hangings, and chairs and sofas of 
moth-eaten garnet velvet, white two or three wax-candles in 
aucient sconces of chased silver only served to render the dark- 
ness of the stormy summer twilight more painfully visible. 

“ I know the train is not late,” said the dowager to her 
maid, a one-e}^ed female, who looked enough like her mistress 
to be mistaken for a relative, “ because I heard the whistle at 
half past six. And it’s a short half-hour’s drive from the 
station, and there’s the clock pointing to five minutes of 
eight.” 

“ It’s very strange, my lady, I’m sure/’ said Mrs. Rachel, 
sympathetically. 


134 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


“ Strange!” echoed Lady Huron. “ It’s what I call unac- 
countable. ” 

“ To be sure, my lady,” assented Mrs. Rachel. “Shall I 
light the other light, my lady? It’s main dark off by the 
piano.” 

“ No,” said Lady Huron; “ three candles are enough — un- 
til they come, at all events. I don’t see what can have be- 
come of them? Caleb was always a punctual lad — most 
punctual! I hope this new wife of his won’t go to upsetting 
all his ideas and habits. ” 

“ I hope not, my lady, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Rachel, fidget- 
ing around the window-curtains. “ Cook’s in an awful way, 
my lady, about the white soup and salmon being spoiled.” 

“ And 1 don’t wonder, I’m sure,” said Lady Huron, brisk- 
ly, as she continued her monotonous tramp up and down the 
room. “ My goodness, what a flash that was!” — as an electric 
blinding glare revealed every article in the room for a second, 
and then left it in darkness again — “ I’m afraid we’re going 
to have a shower.” 

“ I fear so, indeed, my lady,” said Mrs. Rachel, bustling 
to close the shutters. “There they come, now, ma’am — -I 
hear the wheels a-cracklin’ over the gravel. ” 

The Dowager Lady Huron turned short around and marched 
solemnly toward the door — and the next moment her son was 
kissing her affectionately. Claire followed more slowly, the 
skirt of her rich black silk dress trailing over the stone floor 
of the antique porch, her bonnet hanging over her shoulders 
— and just as she passed beneath the heraldic bearings of the 
Hurons, carved in gray stone above the threshold, a tremen- 
dous peal of thunder broke over her head. She stopped abrupt- 
ly and grew pale in spite of herself. Was it an omen? 

“ You are welcome. Lady Huron,” said the dowager, stiffly, 
“although later than I expected. Dinner was ordered for 
eight.” 

“ Yes,” said Claire, carelessly; “ we stopped for a few mo- 
ments at Carew Court.” 

“ Stopped at Carew Court,” repeated the dowager, “ when 
you know that our dinner-hour was eight?” 

“ 1 never thought of it,” said Claire, with exasperating in- 
difference, as she flung her hat on the sofa, and sunk wearily 
into a chair. 

“ Really, mother, it is a matter of no consequence,” kindly 
interposed Sir Caleb. “ Claire is of such an affectionate nat- 
ure— and one really could not expect her to pass the very gates 
of the Court without a word with her friends there.” 


Claire’s love-life. 


135 


“ But 1 think it is a matter of consequence,” said the dow- 
ager, stiffly. “ Your digestion, Galeb, is delicate; your hours 
must be regular. I trust Lady Huron will learn to consider 
these things.” 

“ Call her Claire, mother — it sounds so much less formal,” 
said Sir Caleb, in a low voice, as he drew off his gloves. 

“Humph!” grunted the dowager. “I don’t fancy the 
name. If it was Clara, now, or Clarinda, or anything sensi- 
ble; but Claire is simply heathenish. I shall never learn to 
call her by that name in the world.” 

While the bride herself sat looking absently around the 
gloomy room, from whose half -lighted walls pictured faces of 
the dead and gone Hurons seemed to gaze at her like mocking 
ghosts, and thinking bow unutterably gloomy it was. She had 
been restless and excitable during all their foreign tour, and 
anxious to be at home again; but now that she was at home, 
she would have given all that she had to be back among the 
snow-capped mountains of Switzerland again. From this dis- 
agreeable reverie she was aroused by the voice of the dowager; 
she looked around with a start. 

“ Perhaps, Lady Huron, you will be pleased to go upstairs 
and dress for dinner. My woman will show you the way / 9 
said the old lady. 

“ Dress! What’s the use of dressing?” impatiently retort- 
ed the girl. “ I’m tired, and my head aches. Can’t we sit 
down just as we are?” 

Lady Huron drew herself up with grenadier-like erectness. 

“ As you please — as you please,” said she, conscious that 
.her son’s entreating eyes were upon her. “ Only 1 have 
always been accustomed to sit down at table with ladies prop- 
erly attired for that ceremonial, and — ” 

“ Oh, if that is the case,” angrily interrupted Claire, “ 1 
would not shock your feelings for the world. Go on, please,” 
to Mrs. Rachel, who had stood all this while like a carved 
statue, with a candle in her hand. “ Show the way!” 

And she glided away, her red-gold hair glistening in the 
semi-darkness like the coils of a serpent, her rich silk rustling 
over the carpet. 

“ Son Caleb,” enunciated the dowager, with a prolonged 
sniff, “lam afraid that your new wife is of an irritable tem- 
perament.” 

“ She’s tired, mother,” apologized little Sir Caleb, who, 
between his awe of his mother and his adoration for Claire, 
was placed in rather an uncomfortable predicament. “ She 


136 


claire’s love-life. 


is completely worn out with the stormy passage across the 
Channel. You’ll find her a different creature to-morrow.” 

To this the Dowager Lady Huron only replied by a still 
more portentous sniff; and Sir Caleb began hurriedly talking 
about Paris and the Alps. 

At the end of twenty minutes, the dowager rang the bell 
-sharply. 

“ Rachel,” said she to the maid who answered it, “ will 
you go up and see if my son’s wife is ready for dinner?” 

“I’ll go myself,” said Sir Caleb, jumping, up. 

“ No, Caleb,” said the dowager, laying her bony hand on 
his arm, “ Rachel will do the errand; and it is not well that 
you should accustom your wife to too much waiting on.” 

Presently Mrs. Rachel appeared as unbending as ever. 

“ If you please, my lady,” said she, “ Lady Huron’s com- 
pliments; and ff you’ll send her up a cup of tea and a cracker, 
she will not come down to dinner to-clay, as her head aches, 
and she’s tired.” 

“ What /” said the dowager, in a tone like the explosion of 
a fire-cracker. 

Mrs. Rachel repeated the message, verbatim . The dowager 
turned grimly to her son. 

“ Caleb,” said she, “ this is very extraordinary — very ex- 
traordinary, indeed!” 

“ She’s so tired, you see, mother,” pleaded the baronet, 
shuffling his feet uneasily. 

“ Tired!” repeated the dowager; “ a girl of twenty! When 
I was her age I could have crossed the Channel a dozen times, 
and not felt a whit the worse for it!” 

“But you’ve got a wonderful constitution, mother, you 
know,” argued Sir Caleb, twisting nervously around on his 
chair. 

“ Am I of no consequence?” demanded the dowager. “ Is 
no respect to be shown to me ?” 

“ Mother, 1 beg of you not to take needless offense,” urged 
poor Sir Caleb. “ I’ll just step upstairs and see if Claire—” 

“ And leave me to dine alone!” 

Lady Huron’s brown wig fairly bristled with indignation at 
the idea. Sir Caleb sat down again, twirling his fingers in 
sore perplexity, just as the butler, a white-haired old man, 
who had been at the Hall when its master was a boy, an- 
nounced: 

“ Dinner, Sir Caleb and my lady, if you please.” 

And the pair sat solemnly down in the dismal and moldy- 
smelling dining-room to a dinner that seemed endless to the 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 137 

bridegroom, while Mrs. Rachel took up a tray to the bride, 
containing a cup of tea, a little cold chicken and jelly, and a 
tart. 

“ Can I bring you anything else, my lady?” said she, with 
a stiff inclination of her rheumatic joints. 

“No,” said Claire, shortly; “ I dare say I shall not touch 
a mouthful.” 

“ Sha’n’t 1 bring you my lady’s smelling-salts, or a little 
valerian, or something, my lady?” said Mrs. Rachel, still 
lingering on the threshold. 

“ Oh, no, no— only go away, and leave me in peace!” cried 
out Claire, driven wild by the woman’s persistency; and Mrs. 
Rachel disappeared at last, leaving the bride alone in the 
great, spacious apartment, which from time immemorial had 
been set apart for a reception-chamber for the brides of the 
house of Huron. 

It had been furnished once in bright blue, but the blue was 
faded in streaks; the carpet bore tokens of moths, and the 
gold cornices over the windows were tarnished in spots and 
patches. The chairs and tables were claw-legged, with inlaid 
ornaments of brass; the fire-place was filled with evergreens, 
stuck over with stiff paper roses; and the sofa, upon which 
Claire had flung herself, was as hard and unyielding as if it 
were of cast-iron. There were no little ornaments, no low 
easy-chairs, no tiny tables heaped with books or engravings — 
mute cheerers and companions of solitude — all was stiff as the 
dowager herself, ancient and forbidding as Mrs. Rachel. 

Claire sprung up, and hurrying across the room, opened 
the window, heedless of the rush of warm summer rain that 
drove in against her face. She could just see the black 
masses of foliage without — for Huron Hall was enbosomed in 
old trees — just feel the fragrant wind, while ever and anon a 
sudden glare of lightning revealed all the surrounding woods, 
with a church spire rising out on the left, like a spectral fin- 
ger pointing heavenward. 

She closed the casement with a shudder; even the formal, 
high-ceiled room, with the cluster of candles burning on the 
white muslin-draped dressing-table, and the claw-legged sofa, 
was preferable to the stormy darkness without. 

“Have I got to spend my life here?” she asked herself, 
staring pale and cold upon the glass — and then, as the full 
realization of her position broke on her mind, she threw her- 
self into a chair, and buried her face in her hands;- sobbing 
out: “ Oh, I wish that I were dead! I wish that 1 were dead!” 

And this was the home-coming of the bride of Huron Hall. 


138 


claire’s love-life. 


But with the next day’s sunshine Claire recovered her men- 
tal balance, in some degree, and came down to breakfast with 
fresh roses in her cheeks, and eyes sparkling with their old 
light. The dowager welcomed her with a stiff politeness. 

44 1 hope you are rested by this time. Lady Huron,” said 
she. 44 1 had no idea you were so delicate.” 

44 Oh, I am quite myself again,” said Claire^ carelessly 
sauntering out through the open window upon the lawn. 

44 Where are you going?” said the dowager. 

44 To gather one of those delicious roses.” 

44 Perhaps,” said the dowager, 44 you are not aware that it 
is some fifteen minutes since the breakfast-bell rang, and 1 
am a most punctual person?” 

44 Indeed!” said Claire, with a saucy little laugh. 44 I’m 
afraid you’ll have a terrible trial in me. Lady Huron. ” 

But she did not turn back until she had gathered the rose, 
and fastened it securely in the bosom of her white dress. 

44 You must excuse Claire, mother,” interceded Sir Caleb, 
who was evidently ill at ease while this spirited dialogue was 
progressing. 44 We can no more expect regularity aud rule 
from her than from a butterfly.” 

4 * Humph!” commented the old lady, compressing the thin 
lips, around which a bristly stubble suggested the foundation 
for an excellent beard. 44 Butterflies are very inconvenient 
things about a house, though.” 

And she led the way to the table as Claire entered the room 
again. 

44 Take the head of the table, my dear — take the head of the 
table,” said Sir Caleb, as Claire was about to seat herself at 
the side. 44 My mother, I am sure, does not expect — ” 

44 1 am quite prepared, Caleb,” said the old lady, solemn- 
ly, 44 to see your wife assume her proper position.” 

44 Am I the mistress of the house, now?” asked Claire, in- 
nocently. 

44 Certainly, my love,” said Sir Caleb. 

Claire drew a long sigh of relief as she sat down behind the 
huge coffee-urn. 

44 In that case,” said she, 44 we will not breakfast hereafter 
until ten. I don’t like the idea of being dragged out of my 
bed before daylight in the morning. You hear?” to the 
butler. 

The man bowed, not without a scared sort of glance at the 
dowager, who was sitting more. erect than ever. 

” In the forty years during which I have presided at Huron 


Claire *s love-life. i39 

Hall,” said she, “ nine o’clock has been the invariable break- 
fast-hour. 5 ’ 

“ Oh, of course you can breakfast when you please,” said 
Claire; “ I only referred to myself. And what makes you use 
this dark, dismal little room, Caleb?” — to her husband. 
“ Are there not plenty of more cheerful apartments on the 
south side of the house? I shall select one to-day for a break- 
fast-room.” 

“Just as you please, my love,” said Sir Caleb, all uncon- 
scious of the ominous frown which was glooming on his moth- 
er’s brow. “ The whole house is yours, ‘ from turret to foun- 
dation-stone/ and 1 only hope you will enjoy it.” 

“ Humph!” — Lady Huron’s face was a study. “ And I 
suppose my sentiments and ideas are of no further conse- 
quence now!” 

“ Mother!” cried out the little baronet, in real distress, 
“ you know that 1 meant nothing of the sort! You know 
that it will be Claire’s greatest pleasure to consult your wishes 
and feelings.” ^ 

But the Dowager Lady Huron was not quite so certain of 
this when she found Claire critically inspecting the drawing- 
room an hour or two later, with Sir Caleb dancing attendance 
on her. 

“ 1 hope you are pleased with this apartment. Lady Huron,” 
said she, stiffly. “ It is considered a very stately room.” 

“ Horribly old-fashioned, though,” said Claire, with a 
yawn. “ Yes, Caleb, with the walls in panels of white and 
gold, and a new suite of furniture throughout — the carpets, 
mind, must be all Aubusson — it will do very well, for the 
present.” 

The dowager pricked up her ears in amazement. 

“And you’ll remember the bay-window to be thrown out 
of that south side, and the conservatory adjoining,” added 
Claire, languidly. 

“ Certainly, my dear,” said Sir Caleb. 

“ Conservatories— who is talking of conservatories?” hotly 
demanded the old lady. “ Are there not plenty of flowers in 
the garden? 1 never asked my husband for any such expen- 
sive frippery!” 

“ A house is not a house, in my opinion, without a conserv- 
atory,” said Claire, composedly. 

“ 1 think” said the dowager, craning her neck toward the 
bride, “ that you told me that you had been a governess in 
France?” 

“ Yes?” Claire opened her eyes in mild surprise. 


140 


clatre’s love-lie e. 


“ And that your mother kept a — lodging-house in Lon- 
don?” 

“ Certainly, 1 did,” admitted the bride. 

“ And in which of these capacities, Clara,” demanded the 
old lady, “ were you accustomed to the luxury of conserva- 
tories V 9 

“ Mother,” cried out Sir Caleb, turning scarlet, “this is 
scarcely fair!” 

“ Sir Caleb,” interposed Claire, “ pray do not interfere. 1 
am not offended. Your mother has simply spoken the truth. 
But she has forgotten that in those days I was not Lady Hu- 
ron, of Huron Hall.- Now that I am , I intend to have what- 
ever 1 please.” 

“ I suppose,” said the dowager, spitefully, “ that you mar- 
ried my son, then, simply for the advantages, social and 
financial, which might accrue to you from the match.” 

Claire faced around upon her, with a countenance of cool 
surprise. 

“ What else do you suppose I married him for?” said she. 

A curious jerking spasm flitted across Sir Caleb’s face; he 
grew pale. 

“ Claire!” said he, imploringly, “ do not jest upon such a 
theme as this. ” 

“ 1 believe from my heart she is speaking the truth,” said, 
the dowager, rolling up her eyes and clasping her mittened 
hands. 

“ Mother,” said Sir Caleb — and never before, in all his life, 
had he addressed the old lady so sharply — “ recollect yourself! 
Remember that you are speaking of my wife!” 

“ What nonsense all this is!” cried o^t Claire, impatiently. 
“ Sir Caleb, if we are going up to London to-day, we must 
go on the next train. Stay, though — there is some one on 
horseback coming up the drive.” 

She advanced a pace or two toward the window, her eyes in- 
tently fixed on the screen of waving leaves and boughs, while 
a lovely carmine rose into her cheek, and the faintest shadow 
of a smile played around her lovely lips. Little Sir Caleb 
peered, with near-sighted eyes, into the distance. 

“ Who is it?” said he. “ Perhaps it is old Mr. Pepper- 
man; he told me he should lose no time in paying his respects. 
Who is it, Claire?” 

But Lady Huron did not answer him; apparently she did 
not hear; and the next moment a servant entered with a card. 

“ For Lady Huron,” said he. 

“Mr. Aspendale,” said Claire, speaking composedly; 


CLA IKE ? S LOVE-LTfE. 


iii 

although the blood was leaping in her pulses. “ Show him 
into the south parlor, George, and tell him I will be there 
presently.” 

The dowager stared hard at her son — then at Claire. 

“ Lady Huron,” said she, “ I presume this gentleman — 
whoever he is — intends his visit for the whole family. Caleb, 
I think you should assist your wife in receiving her bridal 
calls.” 

“ Hid he send in his card to the whole family?” imperious- 
ly demanded Claire. “ I must ask the privilege of receiving 
my guests how and when 1 please.” 

And she swept royally out of the room. 

The dowager stooped to pick up the card which lay on the 
floor. 

“ Eustace Aspendale,” she read, and then paused a second 
before she added, “ Caleb, it is early days yet to sow the seeds 
of mistrust in your heart; but do you know what people said 
about this young man before you were engaged to your wife?” 

“ No; what should they say?” asked Sir Caleb, striving to 
appear careless and at his ease. 

“ That he was her lover!” 

“ Mother!” exclaimed the baronet, “ what nonsense is 
this?” 

“ Caleb,” said the old lady, impressively, “ you made your 
own choice in marriage. 1 wasn’t suited with it; but 1 was 
not consulted. And now all Eve got to say to you is, look 
well after your wife! Look after her, Caleb, for she needs 
it!” 

“ I think you must have taken leave of your senses, moth- 
er, ” said Sir Caleb, turning red and white. 

But, long after the dowager had left him, he stood gazing 
out of the window, with a shadow on his face which had not 
been there before — a shadow born of the cruel words his moth- 
er had spoken. 


CHAPTER XXL 

DOMESTIC INFELICITIES. 

e< But, my dearest Lydia,” said Lady Littleton, in a tone 
of remonstrance, “ it can’t be true.” 

She sat in the corner of her sofa, her lap filled with the 
bright-colored silks and crewels in which she was working, 
and her mild blue eyes opened wide with amazement, while 
an unwonted flush had risen to her delicate cheek. 

It was an intensely sultry day in August, one of those days 


142 


claire's love-life. 


in which even the slender-stemmed aspen leaves hung motion- 
less upon the boughs, and a quivering haze of heat seemed to 
interpose itself between the eye and all external objects. The 
embroidered lace draperies at the windows never stirred, 
although all the casements were thrown wid^ open, and the 
very deer in the park seemed to stand panting under the trees, 
while the birds hid themselves away in the masses of foliage 
and scarcely fluttered their wings. Lady Lydia had come in, 
with her muslin hat, jauntily trimmed with bows of pink rib- 
bon, hanging on her arm, and was leaning against her moth- 
er's work-table with a troubled face. 

“ But it is true, you unsuspicious little Mopsey,” said Lady 
Lydia, with the caressing air of patronage that she might 
have assumed had their mutual relations been reversed. “ It 
is quite true, more’s the pity — and the whole country-side is 
ringing with it. The old Hall is all torn to pieces, aiid filled 
with decorators and workmen from London; Claire has a new 
barouche and a pair of horses from Tattersalls, and the family 
diamonds have been sent to Starr & Mortimer’s to be reset in 
modern style. Old Lady Huron stalks about, growling and 
grumbling like a discontented ghost, and poor Sir Caleb sits 
and broods over his own thoughts, in his dismantled library, 
in anything but a bridegroom fashion; while Claire is flirting 
with Eustace Aspendale at all the picnics and croquet-parties 
of the neighborhood, utterly regardless of appearances. ” 

“ But, Lydia,” interrupted Lady Littleton, “ why doesn’t 
Sir Caleb Huron go with his wife himself to all these places?” 

“ He can’t,” said Lady Lydia, with a little nod of the head. 
“ Claire dragged him to a ball at Wynworth Priory that 
night when it rained so heavily, three weeks ago, and he took 
a heavy cold, and has narrowly escaped with his life, through 
an attack of pneumonia which he contracted there, sitting in 
the draughts while she was waltzing with Lord Percival Wyn- 
worth. Since then he has not been able to go out at all.” 

“ Then,” said Lady Littleton, “ Claire should be at home 
nursing him.” 

“Oh! that isn’t Claire’s style at all, you know,” said Lady 
Lydia, shrugging her shoulders. “ And rumor says that 
there have been several battles royal fought over his bedside 
between Sir Caleb’s young wife and the old dowager.” 

“ But, my dear, perhaps it is only an idle report, after all,” 
urged Lady Littleton, whose kind heart was invariably dis- 
posed to look upon the most favorable side of everything. 

“ I’m afraid not, Mopsey,” said Lady Lydia, with a sigh, 
for she had been very fond of Claire Colonsay in the days of 


Claire’s love-life. 


143 


their bright, careless school-life, and she liked her still, 
although she had discovered that underneath the brilliant 
lacquer of the girl’s nature lay a substratum of cold selfish- 
ness and calculation. “It comes from too many different 
sources to be entirely the work of gossip.” 

Lady Littleton shook her head. 

“It is very unwise for a girl in Claire’s position to get her- 
self talked about,” said she. “ People already know that Sir 
Caleb has not selected his wife from among the circles of the 
aristocracy, and they will be all the more ready to criticise her 
on that- account. She should know that she can not be too 
circumspect in her deportment.” 

“Of course she should,” said Lady Lydia. “ And I do 
really think it is too bad that such a nice, harmless little fel- 
low as Sir Caleb should be treated so shamefully, Mopsey ” — 
knitting her brows. “ I think I shall speak to Claire about 
it!” 

“ Oh, my love,” exclaimed the countess, “ it’s such a deli- 
cate subject to interfere in!” 

“ Yes, I know that; but right is right, and wrong is 
wrong,” asserted Lady Lydia. “ And I am not one to stand 
calmly by and see a friend of mine on the high-road to de- 
struction without a word of caution. And I think — Yes, 
Thompson; what is it?” 

A servant had come into the room, carrying a card on his 
embossed silver salver. Lady Lydia took it up with a cry of 
surprise. 

“ My dear little Mopsey,” exclaimed she, “ if you talk of 
angels, you hear the flutter of their wings! It’s Claire her- 
self!” 

And she ran eagerly down-stairs to greet Lady Huron, who 
stood in the middle of the drawing-room, dressed in a green 
velvet riding-habit, buttoned with crystal knobs, and wearing 
a picturesque “ stove-pipe hat,” wreathed about with yards and 
yards of filmy green veiling. Claire looked very pretty, with 
her cheeks flushed and her eyes glittering with exercise, as she 
stood there, playing with her carnelian-handled riding-whip,^ 
and talking animatedly with Eustace Aspendale, who, also in 
equestrian dress, was at her side. 

“It is rather strange that you should chance to meet Mr. 
Aspendale here,” said Lady Lydia, when she had exchanged 
greetings with them; “ isn’t it, Claire?” 

“ Meet him- here!” echoed Claire, with a wild, sweet burst 
of laughter. “ But I didn’t meet him. We rode over from 
Huron Hall together,” 


144 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


“ Did you?” Lady Lydia’s grave eyes were fixed searching- 
ly on Claire’s face. 

“ Isn’t it kind of Eustace to constitute himself my cavalier 
seule , now that Sir Caleb can’t ride?” added Claire. “Oh, 
1 can tell you, Lydia, we have some glorious gallops across 
country together. Sir Caleb was always timid on horseback, 
and it’s so stupid to ride with any one who is always lagging 
behind.” 

“ How is Sir Caleb to-day?” asked Lady Lydia. 

“Oh, he’s better, I believe,” said the bride, carelessly. 
“ Though Lady Huron would like to have you believe that he 
is at death’s door. 1 never saw any one so persistently deter- 
mined to look on the dark side of everything as Lady Huron 
is!” 

“ Claire,” said Lady Lydia, abruptly, “ I wish you would 
come up to my room with me for a few minutes; 1 want to 
speak to you.” 

“ Can’t you speak before Eustace?” said Claire, with a 
laugh. 

“ 1 could,” said Lady Lydia, “ but I -don’t wish to;” and 
her glance toward Mr. Aspendale was not a particularly gra- 
cious or cordial one as she spoke. 

“ A profound secret, I perceive,” said Eustace, with smil- 
ing composure. “ Allow me to take a cigar out on the ter- 
race, until such time as this secret- session is dissolved.” 

And he bowed himself gracefully out of one of the long 
French casements that opened on the lawn. 

“ Eow, then, what is it, now that we are alone?” said 
Claire, half laughing, half impatient. 

“ Claire,” said Lady Lydia, “ do you know what you are 
doing?” 

“ Enjoying myself very much, this charming weather,” re- 
torted Claire. “ Is there any harm in it?” 

But Lady Lydia Grafton knew from the defiant ring of 
Lady Huron’s voice that she was prepared for criticism and 
cavil, and that she cared little for it. 

“You are exposing yourself to remark and blame,” said 
Lady Lydia. “ You are laying yourself open to the attack of 
every venomous tongue in Richmond.” 

“ Yours among the number, 1 suppose,” said Claire, with 
a mocking laugh. 

“ Claire, do you know what people are saying of you?” 
pleaded Lady Lydia, laying both hands entreat! ngly on her 
friend’s gloved wrist. “"Oh, Claire, dearest, I am only 
speaking to warn you! They call you a false wife — a heart- 


CLAIliE’s LOY E-LIFE. 


145 


less coquette. They say that while your husbaud lies on the 
bed of sickness you are mingling in a reckless whirl of gayety, 
with Eustace Aspendale by your side. And, Claire, pardon 
me if I say that Eustace Aspendale bears by no means the fair 
. fame which can justify any woman in abandoning herself too 
much to his companionship. You are young, dear — you are 
inexperienced — oh, be warned in time. ” 

44 Warned of what?” cried Claire, impatiently. 44 Do you 
think 1 am a bread-and-butter-eating school-girl? Do you 
suppose Eustace Aspendale is an ogre, to bite my head off? 
As for Sir Caleb, he is not ill enough to signify. It’s my be- 
lief that he positively likes to lie in bed and eat water-gruel, 
while that terrible old mother of his reads devotional books 
aloud to him. 1 should be worse than a fool if 1 were to shut 
myself up in that sick-room, and feign the anxiety that I do 
not feel; and if I choose to ride and talk with Eustace Aspen- 
dale, whose business is it?” 

Lady Lydia-Grafton turned sadly away. 

44 If this is the spirit in which you take my words,” said 
^she, 44 1 can only regret that I have spoken them at all.” 

44 We’ll consider them as unspoken, then,” said Lady Hu- 
ron, lightly, 44 and come to the especial business that brought 
me over to-day. 1 want to know if you are going to Lady 
Clissold’s archery breakfast on Tuesday?” 

44 1 suppose so,” admitted Lady Lydia. 

44 Will you join our riding-party, then? Eustace and 1, and 
Miss Weir and Lieutenant Montague.” 

44 No,”, said Lady Lydia, brusquely. 

Lady Huron looked sharply at her. 

44 No?” said she. 44 Well, just as you please. Eustace” 
—calling through the open casement — 44 1 am ready now! 
Tell them to bring around the horses. Good-bye, Lydia; my 
love to Lady Littleton.” 

She kissed her gloved hand to Lady Lydia, and vaulted 
lightly into the saddle, her tiny foot scarcely touching Eus- 
tace Aspendale’s hand. 

And this was all the good that Lady Lydia’s remonstrance 
had accomplished. 

44 But I’ve done my duty, at all events,” thought she, as 
she stood at the window watching the flutter of Claire’s rid- 
ing-habit as it disappeared at the turn of the beech avenue. 

It was long past the regular luncheon hour when Mr. As- 
pendale and Lady Huron arrived at the Hall. In spite of the 
general confusion attendant upon remodeling and decorating 
the Ilall, the north wing had been left undisturbed for the 


146 


claire's love-life. 


occupation of the family. Sir Caleb's own apartments, and 
the rooms dedicated to the use of the Dowager Lady Huron, 
were on the second floor, and in a large, low-ceiled dining- 
room below the luncheon-table was set out. 

“ You'll have lunch with me, Eustace?" said Claire, un- 
fastening her hat, and flinging her gauntleted gloves on the 
deep, old-fashioned window-casement. “Do!" as he hesi- 
tated a little. “You've no idea what a desert island of a 
place this is. Porter," to the servant, “ let-Lady Huron know 
that we are waiting." 

“ Yes, my lady," and Porter vanished. Presently he re- 
turned, with the message: “ Lady Huron’s compliments, my 
lady, and she lunched an hour ago." 

“ Very well," said Claire, .indifferently; adding to Mr. As- 
pendale: “ 1 dare say we shall have all the better appetites for 
our lunch without that antiquated old thunder-cloud sitting 
opposite to us." 

And the two equestrians, whose morning gallop had given 
them an excellent appetite, began to discuss cold roast fowls, 
cool galads, and iced claret, without loss of time, while the 
sound of their voices and merry laughter filled the room. 
Claire was in the highest of spirits, and Eustace Aspendale 
was never at a loss for ready wit and badinage. But, just as 
their mirth was at the highest, a grim vision made its appear- 
ance in the door- way, like the ghost of Banquo at the royal 
feast of Macbeth— the Dowager Lady Huron herself. 

“ Clara," said she — somehow she never could bring herself 
to pronounce the obnoxious Christian name of her daughter- 
in-law — • “ your husband needs you! Mr. Aspendale," pro- 
nouncing the word as if it were a dose of calomel, “ 1 will 
preside at the table during the absence of my son's wife." 

Mr. Aspendale rose to his feet with alacrity. Cold chicken 
and claret, with Claire's pretty face opppsite, was quite a 
different thing from cold chicken and claret with the Dowager 
Lady Huron glaring at him, like an avenging spirit, from the 
other side of the table. 

“Iam greatly obliged," said he, “ but I have already fin- 
ished. Lady Huron, I shall see you on Tuesday." 

“Hot before?" pleaded Claire. 

“ probably not. Ladies," with a bow that comprehended 
both the dowager and her daughter-in-law, “ 1 wish you good- 
morning." 

“ How," sharply uttered Claire, turning to confront the 
elder lady, as the ring of Eustace Aspendale's horse's hoofs 
sounded on the graveled walk outside, “ what is it?" 


CLAIRE 5 S LOVE-LIFE, 


147 


The dowager's grim lace grew darker than before. 

“ 1 think. Lady Huron/ 5 said she, “ that 1 mentioned your 
husband desires to see you. 55 ~ 

Without a word, Claire turned and hurried upstairs to the 
semi-darkened room where her husband lay tossing restlessly 
among his pillows. At the sound of her footstep on the 
threshold, his dim eyes brightened — something like a color 
spread itself over his sallow cheek. 

“ Oh, Claire, my darling/ 5 said he, stretching out both 
hands toward her; “ 1 thought you were never coming! 55 

She moved languidly toward him, the long trailing folds of 
her velvet riding-habit sweeping over the mossy pile of the car- 
pet, and let her hand fall lightly on his. 

“Have I been so long away? 55 she asked/ “ Only since 
breakfast! 55 

“ The hours do not pass so lightly with me as with you, 
Claire/ 5 said he, reproachfully. . “ Won't you sit down, 
dear? 55 

“ 1 must go and change my habit, 55 said Claire. “ This 
thick velvet *is unbearable. 55 

“ But you will come back to me, then? 5 5 

Claire hesitated. 

“ 1 was thinking of taking a little nap, 55 said she. “ I 
always like to sleep after lunch. 55 

Sir Caleb's countenance fell. 

“ Claire/ 5 said he, “if it were you who lay upon this sick- 
bed, I would not leave your side for an instant. 55 

“ Then you would be a very great goose/ 5 said Lady Hu- 
ron, lightly. 

- She spoke abstractedly; her eyes were fixed intently on a 
bit of road, white and winding, far-away, which was just visi- 
ble through a break of woods from the open window; and, as 
she gazed, she wondered how soon Eustace Aspendale's horse 
would reach it. 

“ Are you better? 55 she questioned, as Sir Caleb’s earnest 
look recalled her to the present; but the words were spoken 
' with an indifference which grated harshly on the poor young 
husband 5 s heart. 

“ 1 don 5 t think that I am, 55 said he, despairingly. “ The 
doctor has not yet been here; but I feel this pain on my chest, 
and my breathing does not grow easier. 55 

“ Oh, that 5 s all nonsense, 55 said Claire. “ It 5 s only because 
your mother has been croaking at you. She would like you 
to fancy yourself in a dying condition. You'll be better in a 
day or two. You would be better now, if you would get up 


148 


OLAITtF* LOVE-LIFE. 

and walk around the house. But ”• — with a glance at her 
watch — “ I must not stay any longer now.” 

“ One moment, Claire!” " The color flew nervously into 
Sir Caleb’s thin cheeks. “ Whom were you riding with to- 
day?” 

“ Eustace Aspendale, of course,” she retorted. 

“ Claire, my darling, I would not offend your sensitive deli- 
cacy for the world he hesitated — “ but, perhaps, you do 
not understand how easy it is for a young married woman to 
compromise herself by a little lack of caution.” 

“ What on earth do you mean?” said Claire, angrily. 

“ Will you grant me a favor, my love?” he went on. 
“ Will you postpone receiving any further attentions or visits 
from Mr. Aspendale until 1 am well enough to receive them 
with you?” 

“ I shall do nothing of the kind,” cried Claire, now thor- 
oughly roused. “ Do you want me to admit, to the whole 
world, that I am in leading-strings? Do you desire to coop 
me up in this dismal old hole, without seeing a soul from 
morning to night? Do you think I married you to become a 
state prisoner? This is all the fruits of your mother’s med- 
dlesome interference — and I will no longer tolerate it!” 

He put up one trembling hand, as if her shower of angry 
words hurt him, physically as well as mentally. 

“Claire,” he pleaded, “don’t! for God’s sake, Claire, 
don’t speak so!” 

“You do not seem to care how you speak to me /” she re- 
torted. “ And 1 want you to understand, now and hereafter, 
that I do not intend to model all my sayings and doings after 
your mother’s pattern. 1 shall choose my friends and asso- 
ciates to suit myself, not her.” 

“ And me, Claire?” He looked up in her face with work- 
ing features and an agonizing intentness in his eyes. “ Are 
my wishes to have no weight with you?” 

“ What would you have?” cried Claire. “ Would you shut 
me up in this feverish sick-room, day in and day out?” 

“ It is your husband’s sick-room, Claire.” 

“ My husband’s!” she echoed, scornfully. “Is. the word 
husband, then, only a synonym for tyrant — oppressor — despot? 
Did 1 marry you for this?” with a contemptuous glance 
around the darkened room. 

Sir Caleb sunk back among his pillows, and turned his face 
wearily toward the wall. Claire still stood waiting a second 
or two, the red glow on her cheek, the light of angry disdain 
in her eyes. 


149 


CLAIRE *S LOVE-LTEE. 

** Have you anything more to say?” she demanded, briefly. 

“ Nothing,” he responded, in a low tone. 

44 No more orders to issue?” 

44 No.” 

Claire walked out of the room, the green velvet folds rus- 
tling stormily after her, the red-gold braids of hair falling 
loosely over her shoulders, while her eyes blazed and her 
breath came short and quick. On the landing she met the 
dowager face to face. 

“You have made your husband but a short visit, Clara,” 
said the old lady, looking keenly at her. 

“ As long a one as has been agreeable to either of us,” said 
Claire, sweeping past her mother-in-law as if her very pres- 
ence were distasteful in the highest degree. The dowager 
made no answer, but entered the sick-room, and walked up to 
her son’s bed. 

44 Caleb,” said she, 44 why don’t you look at me? Why 
don’t you speak, my son?” 

Her rugged features softened, her harsh voice grew actually 
musical as she bent over her son’s pillow. He looked up with 
haggard eyes of despair. 

“ Mother,” said he, 44 it’s an uneven battle, and I’m tired 
of it. Put these things away,” letting his hand fall heavily 
on the table that contained his medicine vials. 44 Tell the 
doctor he need not come again. 1 am tired of living!” 

44 Caleb!” cried the old lady, 44 your mind is going. You 
are delirious, my lad!” 

“No, mother, no,” he said, sadly. 44 She doesn’t care for 
me — my Claire! That is what troubles me most of all. I 
didn’t mind being sick and lonely while I thought she cared 
for me!” 

44 Is that all?” said the dowager, contemptuously. 44 My 
poor boy, 1 could have told you that long ago. But don’t 
lose heart, my lad, don’t lose heart. A girl like that isn’t 
worth dying for, as long as you’ve your old mother yet, that 
loves you better than the world.” 

Sir Caleb Huron pressed his mother’s hand softly. 

44 God bless you, mother!” said he. 44 1 know that I am 
always certain of your love. And now, if you’ll leave me I’ll 
try to sleep a little.” 


150 


CLAIRE*S LOVE-LIFE. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE ARCHER Y PARTY. 

Days had come and days had gone at Huron Hall, and the 
bride had arrived at no better terms with her husband, who 
no longer asked to see her, and greeted her with a sort of cold 
restraint during the few and formal visits that she chose to 
make of her own accord to the sick-room. The Dowager 
Lady Huron's countenance was cold as a northern iceberg, 
but that, as Claire indifferently reflected, was no extraordinary 
occurrence. The colder and more distant the better, so far as 
she was concerned. 

“ They may as well comprehend first as last," she told her- 
self, “ that I am determined not to be a mere puppet in their 
hands. " 

She came down to breakfast on the day of the archery party 
at Clissold Ohace, all ready dressed in her picturesque hunting 
costume of Lincoln green trimmed with arabesques of gold, 
a coquettish little velvet cap, corded and tasseled with gold, 
and a cluster of ferns fastened into her belt, for Claire was 
not an early riser, and the shooting at the Chace was to begin 
at two precisely, which hour left no very extensive margin for 
the twelve-mile drive. As she sauntered carelessly into the 
breakfast-room, the Dowager Lady Huron entered it from an 
opposite door, and surveyed her with a severe and unbending 
aspect a second or two before she said : 

“ You are surely not going out to-day , Clara?" 

“ Yes," said Claire, arranging a stray fern leaf; “ it is the 
day of the archery party at Clissold Chace, if you remember." 

“ 1 don't know anything about your archery parties, and I 
care less," retorted the dowager, brusquely. “But I do 
know that your husband is much worse this morning, and I 
have just sent a servant off for the doctor." 

“ You are so easily frightened," said Claire, sneeringly. 

“ Have you visited his apartment this morning?" ques- 
tioned the old lady. 

“ No," Claire answered, with a yawn; “ 1 have only just 
risen — and I must hurry with my breakfast to be in time." 

“ Clara," said the old lady, “ let me advise you not to go. 
Let me remind you that your first duty is at the bedside of 
your husband." 

“ I never did feel any calling for the sick-nurse business," 
said Claire, lifting her eyebrows. “ And 1 certainly have no 


Claire’s love-life. 


151 


intention of giving up the archery party at Clissold Chace, to 
which I have looked forward for so long. There’s the car- 
riage for me now — and I haven’t finished my breakfast. Give 
my love to Sir Caleb, and tell him I’ll come in and report 
who won the golden arrow when I get back from the Chace.” 

“ You will not take my advice?” 

“ 1 never take any one’s advice,” said Claire, lightly. 

“ Then the consequences be upon your own head!” saidthe 
Dowager Lady Huron in her deep voice, as her daughter-in- 
law tripped carelessly out of the room. 

44 Oh, dear!” thought Claire to herself, as she leaned back 
in the carriage and stared listlessly at the leafy hedges that 
seemed to roll swiftly past them, 44 what a nuisance that old 
woman is, with her yard-long face and tragic airs. I wonder 
if 1 could not persuade Sir Caleb to pension her off some- 
where, so that I should not be bored with so much of her 
society?” 

The archery party at Clissold Chace was one of the most 
brilliantly got up affairs of the season. Clissold Chace itself 
was a fine old place, hidden in elms and walnuts, with a su- 
perb lawn, dotted at intervals with cedars of Lebanon and 
spreading mulberry-trees — a lawn which sloped, like a plain 
of green velvet, to the very edge of the limpid, murmuring 
Thames. There was no attempt at statuary, fountains, or 
outside ornamentation; the century-old cedars, the moss- 
enameled sun-dial in front of the house, and the dragons 
clipped in box, which guarded the terrace steps, were quite 
sufficient guarantee of the antiquity which is dearer to the 
English heart than any ’amount of rent-rolls. Before Lady 
Huron’s carriage arrived; the lawn was sprinkled with brill- 
iantly attired groups, the flags were flying from the white and 
green striped marquees beyond, and the target had already 
been established on an especially smooth spot, where a hedge 
of Norway spruces cast a grateful shade, and. the river gleamed 
blue and sparkling beyond. 

She was courteously welcomed by Lady Clissold and her 
three plump, cherry-cheeked daughters, and at once greeted 
by Mr. Eustace Aspendale, who had been lingering listlessly 
around the grounds, and making a sort of languid love to the 
youngest Miss Clissold until such time as his own especial 
cynosure should arrive upon the scene of action. 

“ You are just in time, Claire,” said he, the dormant ani- 
mation infusing his face and manner at last. “ I thought 
you never were coming. AmT you know you are registered 
number sixteen on the list of archers.” 


claike’s love-life. 


152 

And he led her away on his arm, while Lady Clissold, a 
stout, motherly looking woman, with a double chin and a pair 
of bright china-blue eyes, looked doubtfully after them. 

“ Then it can’t be true,” said she. 

44 What can’t be true, mamma?” said Dorothea, her eldest 
daughter. 

44 About Sir Caleb Huron’s being so ill of pneumonia. De- 
pend upon it, she wouldn’t be here if he was,” asserted Lady 
Clissold. 

But there was a good deal of whispering and glancing 
askance as Mr. Aspendale passed through the various groups 
with Claire hanging on his arm; for as Lady Lydia Grafton 
had averred, the tongue of gossip was already wagging with 
its usual venom on the subject of the attentions paid by Mr. 
Aspendale to the young bride of Sir Caleb Huron, and the 
evident gratification with which she received them. But for 
this Claire cared little, and Eustace Aspendale still less. 

But there were times, even in the whirl of excitement that 
attended the opening of the shooting lists, during which her 
mother-in-law’s last words recurred with unpleasant iteration 
to Claire’s memory — 44 The consequences be upon your own 
head!” What did they mean? Could it be possible that Sir 
Caleb really was seriously ill? Was it possible that she was 
outraging the limits of public opinion and setting all les con- 
venances at defiance by thus appearing at a festive gathering 
while her husband lay on a couch of sickness and suffering? 

As she roused herself for the last time from this unpleasant 
reverie, the sound of gay laughter and applause greeted the 
shot of Lady Percival Wyn worth, a brilliant, dashing girl 
after the 44 Die Vernon ” type, who had come nearer the 
bull’s-eye than any of her competitors. 

44 Only half an inch nearer,” cried Lady Percival, with a 
gesture of annoyance, 44 and the jeweled arrow would have 
been mine!” 

“Number Sixteen — Lady Huron!” called out the master 
of ceremonies, old Sir Humphrey Clissold himself, who took 
all a boy’s delight in a merry-making of the true old English 
type — and Claire advanced, flushed and beautiful, into the 
space vacated for her, took aim, and drew her bow with the 
languid grace of one who was assured of success. 

It twanged from the string and buried itself in a hedge of 
rhododendrons at least three feet to the left of the gilded and 
flower-garlanded target — and the instant of silence was suc- 
ceeded by a general shout of laughter and clapping of hands. 


Claire/s love-lifE. 153 

Lady Huron laughed too — but in her secret heart she was 
bitterly chagrined and annoyed. 

“Number Seventeen— Miss Editha Clissold!” bawled Sir 
Humphrey — and Lady Huron walked slowly back to the rustic 
seat whence she had risen, and where Eustace Aspendale was 
waiting for her. 

“ 1 will never touch a bow and arrow again !” said she, petu- 
lantly. “ I don’t see what I could have been thinking of to 
aim so incorrectly!” 

“It was the light from the river flashing up into your eyes, 
Claire,” soothed Eustace. “ 1 never saw such a place to put 
a target in — but every one knows that Sir Humphrey Clissold 
is a novice in such matters!” 

J ust at that moment a servant came down from the house, 
carrying a note in his hand, and looking vaguely around as if 
in search of some one. 

“ If you please, miss,” said he to the eldest Miss Clissold, 
“ which is Lady Huron? A messenger on horseback brought 
this note, which I was to deliver into her hands at once.” 

Claire started up. 

“ I am Lady Huron,” said she. “ What is it?” 

The man bowed and gave her the note, a half sheet of 
paper, twisted into a cocked-hat shape, and scribbled over in 
the Dowager Lady Huron’s cramped, uncertain hand. 

“ Come home at once, if you would see your husband 
alive,” it said. “He is sinking fast, and probably will not 
live out the day. Maria Huron,” 

She cast her eye over - the note, and then gave it to Miss 
Clissold to read'. 

“1 suppose 1 had better return to the Hall?” said she, 
hesitatingly. 

“ Of course!” cried Miss Clissold, who was genuinely 
shocked by the contents of the letter. “ You never ought to 
have been here. Lady Huron, if he is so ill as this!” 

Claire shrugged her shoulders. 

“ You don’t know how many panics Lady Huron passes 
through in the course of twenty-four hours,” said she. “ Ac- 
cording to her. Sir Caleb dies a hundred deaths a day. I dare 
say it’s nothing serious— but still I had better go. Eustace,” 
turning to Mr. Aspendale, “ will you see that my carriage is 
ordered at once?” 

Kind Lady Clissold accompanied her young guest back to 
the house, with many commiserating speeches and much pity, 


154 


CL A IKE ? S LOVE-LIFE. 


all of which Claire received with ail indifference which in- 
finitely shocked her hostess. 

“• Oh, you needn’t take it so dreadfully au serieux, Lady 
Clissold!” said the bride, as she entered the carriage. “ You 
will soon perceive that it was only a false alarm. Good-bye, 
Eustace!” with a wave of her little gloved hand to Aspendale. 
“ Be sure you come around this evening and let me know 
who won the golden arrow.” 

“ Upon my word!” ejaculated Lady Clissold, staring after 
the departing carriage wheels, “ that girl astonishes me. Has 
she a heart, or has she not?” 

“ She’s very young, Lady Clissold,” said Aspendale, plausi- 
bly, “ and the old dowager leads her a terrible life at Huron 
Hall; and then you know Sir Caleb isn’t exactly an Adonis 
himself, and — ” 

“But he is her husband!” said the old lady, with em- 
phasis. “ And now, Mr. Aspendale, perhaps we had better 
return to the archery-grounds.” 

It was nearly four o’clock before Claire Huron reached the 
Hall, and, without stopping to ask any questions of the serv- 
ant who admitted her, ran upstairs, in all the gay green and 
gold decorations of her archery costume, to Sir Caleb’s room. 
An old woman on the landing would have spoken to her, but 
Claire waved her back. 

“ Who are you?” said she; “ and what are you doing here? 
I am Lady Huron; stand back and let me pass!” 

The old woman hesitated a second, and then stood back, 
while Claire opened the door and went in. 

A strange and unwonted chill seemed to strike upon her as 
she entered. The room was darkened, the draperies drawn 
around the bed, but in the semi-gloom of the apartment 
Claire could recognize the form of the Dowager Lady Huron, 
sitting motionless at the head of the huge antique bedstead, 
with face bent downward and hands clasped in her lap. 

“Is he so much worse?” said Claire, petulantly. “ Why 
don’t you let in a little sun and air? The smell of camphor 
in this room is enough to sicken any one!” 

“ Hush!” said the dowager, in a low voice. “ Clara, come 
here!” 

She grasped the young wife’s wrist, and, drawing her for- 
ward with one hand, with the other opened the curtains of the 
bed. 

“ Is he asleep?” asked Claire, shrinking back. 

“Asleep! God help him, yes!” answered the Dowager 
Lady Huron, her voice rising into almost a shriek. “And 


claire’s love-life. 


155 


what is more, he never will wake again to endure all the 
heartache caused by a bad wife! Look what you have done, 
Clara, and answer to God for it as best you may!” 

Claire recoiled with a low cry of horror, for there, stiff and 
silent, with his limbs already composed into the rigidity of 
death, lay Sir Caleb Huron, dead and cold! 


CHAPTER XX1I1. 

AT THE GARDENER’S COTTAGE. 

tk Don’t be such a fool, Lotty,” said Mrs. Mackenzie. 
“ If there was any use in frettin’, I’d be the first to advise 
you to fret; but there ain’t, and you know it as well as I do. 
It’s all past and gone, and you’d a deal better forget- it.” 

Mrs. Mackenzie was ironing briskly away, in the cool green 
light of the ivied walls, upon her husband’s Sunday shirt. 
Lotty Kenrick sat opposite her, pale and wan, with big eyes 
shining preternaturally large, and hands listlessly folded in 
her lap. She looked up at Mrs. Mackenzie’s last words. 

“ You never had any children. Aunt Phillis, had you?” 
said she. 

“No, thank the Lord, I never had,” the gardener’s wife 
retorted, sharply. 

'“If you had,” said Lotty, piteously, “you never could 
have spoken so. Forget! Oh, Aunt Phillis, a mother can 
not forget. It’s in my heart day and night, it hurts me like 
a rankling thorn when I wake up in the night, it weighs me 
down all day long.” 

“ More fool you,” remarked Mrs. Mackenzie, bearing 
heavily down on her iron to give the shirt-front additional 
polish. 

“ If I could only go and weep over his little grave now and 
then,” went on Lotty, rocking herself to and fro. “If I 
had only held him in my arms when he died, it wouldn’t have 
"been so bad.” 

“Yes, it would, every bit, and worse,” said Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie. 

“ But never to know how or where he went,” sobbed the 
girl. “ To think of him struggling all alone with the cold, 
cruel water; to fancy him crying aloud for help — my poor 
little white lamb — when there wasn’t a soul nigh to stretch 
out a helping hand; to picture him to myself lying dead at 
the bottom of the river— oh! it is too, too dreadful! 1 can’t 
endure it, Aunt Phillis! 1 shall go frantic!” 

“ Then what on earth do you do it for?” demanded the 


156 


Claire's love-life. 


gardener's wife, impatiently. But poor little heart-broken 
Lotty, heedless of the query, only rocked herself restlessly to 
and fro once more, uttering a low, moaning sound as she did 
so, like some dumb creature in mortal pain. 

At that moment a gentle knock sounded at the door, and 
Mrs. Mackenzie, hastening to open it, saw, to her great sur- 
prise, Katherine Carew standing on the doorstep without. 
The gardener's wife made her best courtesy, and opened the 
door wider still. 

“ And it's a great honor, miss, as you're doing to the likes 
of me," said she, volubly. “ Please to walk in. Lotty, 
child, dust olf the big chair for Miss Carew. It’s a poor 
place, miss," with a complacent glance around at the ex- 
quisite neatness of the shining brick floor and polished win- 
dows, “ but it’s clean." 

“I am sure of that, Mrs. Mackenzie," said Katherine, 
kindly, as she unfolded her light muslin scarf, and displayed 
to view a little trembling rabbit, with one leg bruised and 
bloody. “ See what I found crouching under the bushes just 
now. 1 am afraid my dog Cato has worried it. " 

“ Better let me kill it, miss, and put it out of its pain," 
suggested the gardener's wife. 

Katherine shrunk back. “ Oh, no, Mrs. Mackenzie," said 
she. “ Poor little trembling thing! I am sure your husband 
could put a little salve or something on it, and feed it for me 
until its leg healed, and then let it go free again." 

“ I don't doubt as he could, miss," said Mrs. Mackenzie. 
“ Mackenzie always was a rare 'un for herbs and simples, and 
such like things, and if he knows it's your desire, miss, he’ll 
be more than glad to take care of the creature for you." 

As she spoke she took the rabbit out of the muslin scarf, 
and laid it in an old woolen shawl which she had been using 
for an ironing-blanket. 

“ I shall be very much obliged," said Katherine, laying a 
silver half crown on the table, and at the same time looking 
around at the slight figure that cowered beside the window. 
“ Surely," she added, “ that is our Lotty!" 

Lotty rose and courtesied at the words, 

“ She's my niece, ma'am, you know," explained Mrs. 
Mackenzie, “ and odd whiles, when there's nothing to do at 
the Court, Mrs. Arbuckle kindly lets her step down to have a 
word with me. 1 hope as how she gives every satisfaction, 
miss?" 

“I have heard no complaint," said Katherine. “ But 1 
have observed that Lotty has not looked well of late. " 


Claire’s love-life. 157 

The sudden scarlet flamed into the girl’s cheek at the words 
— she hung her head down like a guilty creature. 

“ 1 — 1 feel well enough, Miss Katherine/’ said she. “ I 
suppose it’s sitting so close over my work.” 

“ Then what makes you sit so close at your work, Lotty?” 
demanded Miss Oarew. “ I am sure Mrs. Arbuckle would 
not insist upon it, if she knew you were not strong.” 

To this the girl made no answer; and Katherine went on, 
still looking kindly at the drooping head and pale cheek, from 
which the color had now entirely died away. 

Lotty,” said she, “ my maid. Pinner, is going to be mar- 
ried to a druggist’s clerk up in London, next month. How 
would you like the place?” 

“ Oh, Miss Kate!” Lotty started to her feet in a sort of 
mute ecstasy. 

“ Lotty, child, why don’t you thank Miss Carew?” cried 
Mrs. Mackenzie, shrilly. “ I’m sure, miss, as it’s glad and 
grateful she’ll be, aud do her best, too, to deserve the honor. 
Won’t you, Lotty?” and Mrs. Mackenzie gave her niece an 
energetic nudge with her elbow. 

“ Indeed, indeed. Miss Kate, 1 will,” said Lotty, in a voice 
that was scarcely audible. 

“ I have an idea that you would make a very good lady’s- 
maid,” said Katherine. “ At all events, 1 intend to give you 
a trial.” 

Something in the gentle expression of the girl’s eyes, the 
sweet sound of her voice, seemed to penetrate straight to 
Lotty Corey’s heart. She sunk on her knees at Katherine’s 
feet. 

“ Oh, Miss Kate,” she sobbed, “ if I only dared to tell you 
all! If I only— ” 

But Mrs. Mackenzie’s instantaneous grasp was on her arm; 
Mrs. Mackenzie’s hand dragged her to her feet, with a whis- 
pered “ Are you raving mad?” and then she uttered aloud: 

“ Why, Lotty, what a baby you are! Don’t mind her. Miss 
Katherine— it’s only that she’s afeard she ain’t very strong 
and won’t give satisfaction, if she attempts to take Miss Pin- 
ner’s place. But 1 make bold to say, miss, as she’ll do mid- 
dlin’ well, though she is my niece.” 

“ I have no doubt at all of it,” said Katherine, encour- 
agingly. “ At all events, Lotty, we will try it next month.” 

And with a kind word or two more. Miss Carew left the 
gardener’s cottage and pursued her way up to the Court, won- 
dering why Lotty Corey should feel so distrustful of her own 
abilities, and wondering still more why she herself felt such 


158 Claire’s love-liee< 

an unaccountable dislike to John Mackenzie’s smooth-tongued 
wife. 

No sooner had the cottage door closed behind her than Mrs. 
Mackenzie turned furiously on her niece. 

“ Lotty,” cried she, “ I’ve no patience with you! Would 
you fling away your luck, just when it’s in your grasp? Do 
you want to become a pauper? Because, if you do, you 
needn’t look to me for your victuals and clothes! I’ll see you 
in the work-house first, that I will!” 

“ But it seems so wrong to deceive Miss Kate,” faltered 
Lotfcy. “ I wouldn’t mind it if she was cross and scolded me, 
like old Mrs. Arbuckle; but when she speaks so sweetly, and 
looks so kindly at me, it seems so ungrateful not to tell her 
all. And I don't think she’d mind it much. Aunt Phillis, if 
I were to tell her,, now, because — ” 

“ Tell her that you’re a grass- widow!” screamed Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie, heedless, in her anger, that she was scorching her best 
pillow-cases with an overheated iron. “ Tell her that you’ve 
a husband in the hulks at New South Wales! Tell her that 
you’ve deceived her all along, and told her a double-dealing 
lie! That would be a nice recommend, wouldn’t it? And 
me and Mackenzie turned out, as like as not, to starve, all 
because we’ve stood by our own relations! Lotty Corey, I’ve 
always thought you were a fool, but I think now that you’re 
an ungrateful fool!” 

Poor little Lotty shrunk before the torrent of Mrs. Mac- 
kenzie’s savage abuse, as if every word had been a stone. 

“ You need not be afraid. Aunt Phillis,” said she, pale and 
trembling. “ I will not betray you — nor myself.” 

“ You’re not going?” said Mrs. Mackenzie, as her niece 
wrapped a light shawl over her head and turned toward the 
door. 

“ Yes, I am,” said Lotty. 

“ Then remember what I’ve said,” urged the gardener’s 
wife, “ and don’t be a goose. If you does your duty by Miss 
Carew, you earns your wages. She don’t want nor expect to 
know all that has happened to you since you was a teething 
baby. If you was to tell her, like enough she’d tell you to 
hold your tongue and not bother her. And as for Johnnie—” 

Lotty started at the word. 

“ For God’s sake,* don’t speak of Johnnie!” she cried out. 
“ Oh, my child, my little lost angel!” 

And darting out, she was soon- lost to sight in the intricacies 
of the shrubbery. 


CLAIRES LOVE-LIFE. 159 

Mrs. Mackenzie looked after her with a solemn shake of the 
head. 

“ I'm sure I don’t know what’ll come to that girl,” said 
she. “ 1 believe she is going crazy, in good earnest.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

CLAIRE RUNS AWAY. 

From the gardener’s ivy-draped cottage Katherine Carew 
had walked gravely and thoughtfully up to the Court, with 
her mind busy upon many topics. The momentary surprise 
awakened in her mind by Lotty’s singular conduct had soon 
been allayed- by the reflection that the girl was unwell and 
nervous, and probably needed a tonic and rest; and then 
Katherine’s thoughts instinctively reverted to Malcolm Aspen- 
dale, and the silent admiration which her feminine eyes had 
long divined that he entertained for her. 

Does a women ever like a man the less for knowing that he 
admires her? Katherine Carew certainly did not. 

“ But if he really likes me,” she thought, the delicate roses 
mantling her cheek at the possibility, “ he will certainly say 
so; and until he says so, it is scarcely right or maidenly for 
me to allow my thoughts to dwell upon him.” 

And, resolving firmly to banish all wandering fancies from 
her mind, she entered the great marble-paved vestibule, where 
the statues glimmered in the afternoon sunshine, and the 
stained-glass Madonna smiled serenely down from a perfect 
halo of blues and crimsons and deep amber. Mackenzie’s 
man had just filled the huge spar vases that stood on either side 
of the stairs with fresh roses, whose delicate fragrance per- 
vaded the air like a dream of Persian vales; the birds in the 
aviary were warbling shrilly, and a great violet-winged butter- 
fly, which had found his way in out of the sunshine was float- 
ing about among the ferns and sweet-myrtles, as if he fancied 
that he belonged there. Mechanically taking a white rosebud 
from the nearest vase, Katherine passed upstairs to her own 
boudoir, an apartment opening on the left side of the hall, 
and furnished in an expensive Pompeian fashion, according to 
a whim of her father. 

“ It will be at least an hour before Lady Littletcn and 
Lydia return from their drive,” she thought; “ and 1 may as 
well write a few letters in the interval.” 

She had hardly seated herself at the inlaid desk, however, 
and dipped her pen in the little carved standish of onyx 


ICO 


Claire’s LOVE-Ltm 


banded with gold, when the sound of light, rapid footsteps in 
the hall fell on her ear. 

“ Can it be Lydia returned already?” she asked herself — 
but the next moment her doubts were solved by the flinging 
open of the door, and the entrance of Claire Huron, dressed 
in widow’s weeds, and very pale. 

Katherine could scarcely believe her own eyes when they 
telegraphed this unexpected presence to her brain. She 
knew that Sir Caleb Huron had been buried the afternoon be- 
fore, for the Carew carriage, decorously closed and curtained, 
but qfuite empty, had formed one of the dreary cortege that 
had escorted his remains to the neighboring cemetery; and 
she could not imagine what terrible exigency had driven the 
widow from the privacy of her own house at a time like this. 

44 Claire,” she cried out, breathlessly, 44 what has hap- 
pened?” 

44 Only what might have been expected,” answered Claire, 
with a bitter laugh. 44 1 am homeless, Kate, and without a 
friend in the world!” 

44 But Huron Hall — ” commenced Katherine, almost fear- 
ing that the sudden shock of widowhood had unsettled her 
friend’s brain. 

4 4 1 have left Huron Hall forever,” said Claire. 44 1 have 
no place to go to — no sympathizing friend to whom I can 
turn, except you, dear Kate. Oh, surely, surely, you will not 
refuse me the shelter of your roof, the abiding comfort of 
your love!” 

And she sunk at Katherine Carew’s feet, the deep crape of 
her veil and the gold-gleaming masses of her warm auburn 
hair mingling picturesquely together. Miss Carew, deeply 
distressed, raised her again, and: drew her to a seat on the low 
sofa at her side. 

44 Are you going to turn me out?” asked Claire, wildly. 
44 Do you, too, set yourself against me?” 

44 Dearest Claire, you know that I will not,” soothed Kath- 
erine, holding one -of the slender, black-gloved hands in hers. 
“ Tell me what all this means! Why are you here, alone and 
in tears? Where is your mother-in-law?” 

44 1 must begin at the very beginning, must 1 not?” said 
Claire, with a short, bard laugh. 44 Well, then, Mr. Persifar, 
the lawyer, came to the Hall, yesterday, after the funeral was 
over.” * 

44 Did you get very tired, dear?” asked Katherine, caress- 
ing the hand that lay in hers. 


claireV love-like. 


161 

“ How?” Claire asked, looking at her companion with eyes 
of questioning surprise. 

“ At the funeral.” 

“ 1 didn’t go,” said Claire, briefly. “ I hate funerals.” 

“ But your own husband, Claire!” 

“ I can not help that,” retorted Claire, impatiently. 
“ There is nothing in all the world so depressing to me as a 
country church-yard. And the old dowager was quite ready to 
make fuss enough for both of us. Well, the carriages had not 
been back half an hour before Mr. Persifar sent for me to 
come down into the library.” 

“ To hear the will read?” 

“ Yes, of course. And how do you think the property was 
left?” 

“Iam sure I can not guess,” said Katherine. 

“ No one could,” said Claire, bitterly. “ The Hall and all 
the landed estates are entailed, and go to some distant rela- 
tive of Sir Caleb, in Scotland — the other property is willed, 
without exception, to the Dowager Lady Huron! Without 
exception, Kate — do you hear that?” 

“ But sure, Claire, you are not left totally unprovided for!” 
uttered Katherine. 

“ 1 am /” she cried out, the deep color of indignation chas- 
ing the pallor from her cheek. “ There is not a scullery-maid 
in all Huron Hall that is not better off than I am! My name 
is not so much as mentioned in the will ! His mother has 
everything— and 1 nothing! Oh, why did 1 marry him so 
precipitately? Why did I not wait for settlements and that 
sort of thing?” 

“ It was your own wish, Claire,” said Katherine, mildly. 

“ But how was I to know that Sir Caleb and his miserly old 
mother would conspire together to cheat me out of all that I 
married him for?” retorted Claire. “ He must have exe- 
cuted the will in one of those fits of jealousy which the horrid 
old hag was always trying to inspire him with — for it was 
dated only a few weeks before his- death. To think of my be- 
ing cheated out of every possible advantage which could accrue 
from that horrid marriage!” 

“ But, Claire,” remonstrated Miss Carew, “ it is not possi- 
ble that your husband’s mother refuses you the shelter of a 
home!” 

“Ah!” said Claire, piteously, “you do not know’ her, 
Kate! It is not in your gentle and innocent nature to under- 
stand the venom of a soul like hers. Only think of her flying 
into such a dreadful passion because Eustace Aspendale left 


claire’s love-life. 


162 

his card at the door, the day of the funeral, and telling him 
that she would admit no such visitors at a house of which she 
w r as the mistress. I told her that I should allow of no inter- 
ference with my affairs — and she retorted that in that case I 
might leave the house. I left it accordingly— do you think I 
could brook words like that? — and here 1 am. Oh, Kate, 
dear Kate! what should 1 do, whither should 1 turn, if I had 
not your loving, generous heart to flee to?” 

And Claire- sat looking at her friend, the image of beautiful 
despair, with radiant disheveled hair, and plaintive eyes 
swimming in tears, while the deep folds of crape that trimmed 
her dress were sweeping the floor, and her heavy mourning 
veil was flung carelessly back over the arm” of the sofa. 

Miss Carew was a little bewildered and uncertain at this 
very unexpected phase of affairs. She could not steel her 
heart against the young widow’s piteous appeal, and yet she 
felt, in the secret recesses of her heart, that Claire had only 
met with her deserts. 

“ But what are your plans for the future, Claire?” she 
asked, after a few seconds of silence. 

“ I have no plans,” Claire answered, wearily. 

Just then Miss Pinner tiptoed into* the room, and, with a 
low courtesy to Lady Huron, informed her mistress that visit- 
ors awaited her in the drawing-room. Katherine rose at 
once. 

“ Pinner,” said she, “ conduct £ady Huron to the pink- 
chintz rooms. She will be my guest for the present. Dear 
Claire,” stooping over the black-robed figure, “ I hope you 
will make yourself as comfortable as you can until 1 see you 
again.” 

But even while she was trying to converse unconcernedly 
with her guests in the drawing-room, Katherine Carew’s 
mind was dwelling uneasily upon the subject of her enforced 
guest. She had recently issued cards for a large ball, to be 
given just previous to the departure of Lady Lydia Grafton 
and her mother from the Court, and it struck her as scarcely 
suitable that the young widow of Sir Caleb Huron should be 
under her roof while it was garlanded with festal flowers, and 
crowded with lights and music and gay guests. 

“ Still, it can not be avoided,” she told herself. “ Claire 
will pardon the seeming lack of respect when 1 tell her that 
it was all decided on, and the invitations sent out, before poor 
Sir Caleb's death.” 

Lady Lydia Grafton shook her head when Katherine told 
her, on her return, of the new guest at Carew Court. 


'claire’s love-life. 


163 


“ You've made a mistake, Kate!" said she, very decidedly. 

“ What do you mean?" 

“You never should have let her come here." 

“ But, Lydia, what could I do?" pleaded Katherine. “ It 
was not in human nature to repulse one so helpless and desti- 
tute. ” 

“Whose fault is it that she is helpless and destitute? 
Would Sir Caleb ever have left her in such a case if she had 
not provoked him almost to madness?" demanded Lady 
Lydia. 

“ It was unjust of him, to say the least," said Katherine, 
indignantly. 

“ Unjust, perhaps, but not unnatural. She has only her- 
self to thank for it," responded Lady Lydia, coldly. 

“ Oh, Lydia, I thought you were her friend?" said Kath- 
erine, in reproachful accents. 

“ So I was, once," admitted Lady Lydia. “ But somehow 
she has disenchanted me, and I've lost all faith in her." 

“ She is friendless and alone." 

“ She wouldn't have been if she could have foregone the 
delightful amusement of flirting with Eustace Aspendale. 

‘ All for love, or the world well lost,' may do very well 
in the pages of romance, but it doesn't work in real life, 
Kate." 

“ But what else could I have done?" 

“You c.ould have told her to go back to Huron Hall and 
beg her mother-in-law's pardon, as she ought to have done at 
first." 

Katherine shook her head decidedly. “No, Lydia," said 
she, “ I could not do that. And, after all, 1 dare say her so- 
journ here will only be temporary." 

“ I'm not so sure of that," said Lady Lydia. “ Claire 
Colonsay always had assurance enough for anything, and I 
should not be at all surprised if she never left this house until 
she left it to be married again." 

“ Oh, Lydia, how can you speak of such a thing?" 

“ I'll wager anything you please that she has thought of it 
already!" said Lady Lydia, with a laugh, as she ran up the 
stair- way. 

And Katherine was somewhat taken by surprise the next 
day, when she went into the pink-chintz apartments which 
had been appointed to the use of the widowed Lady Huron, 
to find that young person, not dissolved in tears, not sadly 
gazing into vacancy, as # the ideal widow should be, but busily 


164 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIEE. 


engaged in sewing black ribbon bows, thickly studded with 
jet, upon a black grenadine dress. 

“ How do you think this dress will do?” she asked, looking 
brightly up. 

“For a dinner costume, do you mean?” said Katherine. 
“ I am sure it will be very pretty.” 

“ No— for the ball.” 

“ What ball?” demanded Katherine, in surprise. 

“ Why, your ball, of course— whose else?” 

“ Claire,” cried Katherine, “you are not intending— you, 
a widow of scarce a week’s standing — to appear at a public 
occasion like this?” 

“ Yes, I am,” said Claire. “ Ho you suppose I shall deny 
myself any amusement for the sake of the man who has left 
me penniless?” 

“But what will the world say?” 

“ What do 1 care for the world?” disdainfully retorted 
Claire. 

“ 1 do, if you do not,” said Katherine, feeling the indig- 
nant blood rise to her face. “ And in my house, -dear Claire, 
you must not think it strange if 1 request you to consult my 
wishes.” 

“ You are as bad as the rest of them,” said Claire, plaint- 
ively, as she flung aside the dress, and buried her face in her 
pocket-handkerchief. “ Even you, Kate, whom I believed to 
be beyond all petty spite and conventional jealousy. ” 

But Miss Carew was not. to be melted by tears or piteous re- 
proaches this time. She began, in her secret heart, to think 
that Lady Lydia Grafton was right, and that Sir Caleb Hu- 
ron’s beautiful young widow might yet prove to be a feminine 
type of the immortal Old Man of the Sea. 

It was the afternoon of the same day, and Mrs. Arbuckle 
had sent Lotty Corey down to Mrs. Mackenzie’s cottage to 
get some lace flounces which that lady, who was especially 
skilled in the doing up of fine fabrics, had undertaken to re- 
new. 

“ They’re not done yet,” said Mrs. Mackenzie, tartly. 
“I’ll send ’em up by the weeding boy, tell Mrs. Arbuckle, 
when I’ve got ’em up to suit myself, and do me credit.” 

Lotty was returning through the shadowy recesses of a 
tamarack-shaded walk, which was always green and gloomy, 
even in the brightened glow of noontide — a solitary spot, and 
one where people seldom cared to come — when a silent figure 
glided out of the green masses of shade, and stood directly in 
front of her, 


claire’s love- life. 165 

She started as if she had been shot. 

“ Victor!” she cried, turning as pale as marble. 

“Yes, Victor!” said the man. “Stop; don’t hurry past 
as if 1 was the plague!” And he prisoned both her trembling 
hands in his own. “ Why shouldn’t it be Victor?” 

“ I — I thought you had gone to America,” she faltered. 

“ And how the deuce did you suppose I was going to get 
to America, with neither cash nor credit, my dear?” he de- 
manded, sardonically. “Allow me to remark, Mrs. K., that 
you don’t show your usual wisdom and discretion. Why are 
you trying to pull your hands away?” 

“ Please to let me pass,” said she, submissively. “Iam 
in a hurry.” 

“ I am not,” said he. “ And your will ought to be mine.” 

She remonstrated no longer, but stood pale and silent be- 
fore him; but she had not sufficient control over the muscles 
of her countenance to disguise her feelings. Victor Kenrick’s 
look grew more hard and cruel than ever, as he marked the 
expression of silent aversion in her face — the mute, shudder- 
ing horror that she could not conceal. 

“ I am told that you are gay people up at the Court,” said 
he. “1 hear that you are to have a ball there on Thursday 
evening.” 

Lotty made no reply. 

“ Why don’t you speak?” he demanded, savagely. 

“ What shall 1 say, Victor?” she answered, in a scarcely 
audible voice. “ What is it to you and me whether they 
have balls up at the Court or not?” 

“ A great deal,” he responded. “ Listen, girl!” grasping 
her arm, with an emphasis which made her cry out with pain. 
“ The time has come in which you must help me, as a wife 
should help her husband, or I’ll know the reason why! You 
are in the young lady’s confidence at the Court; you know all 
her secrets.” 

“ 1 don’t know any of them, Victor,” said the poor girl, 
trembling like a leaf. “I am only a poor seamstress. Miss 
Carew is kind to me, but—” 

“ You know where she keeps her jewels — the diamonds, 
and rubies, and emeralds? You know how a man could steal 
quietly in, when all the world are dancing waltzes, and eating 
ices, and amusing themselves?” 

“ If 1 do know, Victor, I shall not tell you,” cried Lotty,, 
shrinking from him as if his touch had been a red-hot coal. 
The sudden light of anger flashed into his face — for an instant 
it was more like that of a demon than a man. 


166 


claire’s love-life. 


“You dare to speak to me thus!” he hissed. “ Do you 
know that I could murder you now and here, and no one 
would be the wiser?” 

“ 1 don’t care whether you do or not,” she cried out, pas- 
sionately. “I will not betray my trust — no, not if you were 
to murder me a thousand times!” 

Victor Kenrick paused an instant. Evidently, Dotty was 
not one to be coerced by any threats of mere personal vio- 
lence. 

“ Dotty,” said he, his voice falling to a soft and more per- 
suasive accent, “ I was only in jest. What should 1 gain by 
murdering you, my girl? Why, bless your heart, I’m fond of 
you still, in spite of all you’ve said and done to estrange me. 
I’m thinking of you always. The last time I was in Dondon, 
I came across a pretty little trinket that I thought you might 
fancy— where the deuce is it?” as he fumbled in his various 
pockets. “Oh, here in my watch-pocket. So I brought it 
to you. How do you like it, eh?” 

And suddenly drawing out a tiny silver locket, battered and 
worn, which was attached to a bit of tattered velvet ribbon, 
he dangled it before his wife’s eyes. 

Dotty uttered a shriek that echoed through the woods like a 
bugle. 

“ Johnnie — my baby!” wailed she. 

Kenrick angrily clapped his hand over her mouth. 

“ Fool!” cried he, “ would you ruin us both? Silence, or 
I’ll choke the breath out of your body!” 

But Dotty heeded not a word that he spoke; her senses were 
all concentrated on the silver locket, which she was weeping 
over and kissing convulsively. 

“ Where is he, Victor?” she cried. “ What have you done 
with him? Oh, God! to think that after the rivers of tears 
I have shed, he is still alive!” 

“ You women always think it necessary to cry over every- 
thing,” said Kenrick. “ How do you know that he is alive 
at all?” 

The poor, pallid face twitched spasmodically, as a cold chill 
of dread griped the fast-fluttering heart. 

“ You — you would not have shown me this,” she faltered, 
“if my Johnnie had not been alive. You never could have 
been so cruel, Victor.” 

“ You are right,” said Victor, with a hard, triumphant 
chuckle; “ he is alive!” 

Dotty drew a long breath of infinite joy; her face seemed 


CLAIRE'S LOVE-LIFE. 


107 


positively glorified with the mate happiness reflected from her 
heart. 

“ Oh, God, I thank Thee!” she murmured, with clasped 
hands and uplifted eyes. 

“ He is alive,” repeated Victor. 

“ And well? Oh, Victor, tell me of him.” 

“ Oh, well enough,” said Victor, indifferently. 

“ I must go to him,” said Lotty, plucking at the strings of 
her little -Swiss hat. “Where is he, Victor? 1 must go to 
him at once.” 

“ No, you must not,” said Kenrick, brusquely. “ He's 
well enough for the present. And he isn't where you can get 
at him in the twinkling of an eye. 1 have looked out for 
that .'' 

“ Victor,” gasped Lotty, “ did you take him away?” 

“ 1 did.” 

“ And never to tell me! Never to let me know, God help 
me, whether he was alive or dead! Oh, Victor, how could 
you have the heart?” 

“Why should I tell you?” Kenrick demanded, brutally. 
“ You had tried to deceive me into thinking he was dead; and 
now you blame me for turning the tables upon you. It's a 
poor rule that won't work both ways, Mrs. K.” 

“ But you were not his mother!” cried Lotty, in an agony 
of contending feelings. 

“ Don't be a fool,” said Kenrick, shortly. 

“ Where is he?” eagerly questioned Lotty. “ When can 1 
go to him? Oh, my boy*! my little Johnnie! my golden-haired 
darling, that I haven't seen in so many long weeks!” 

“ You can go to him,” said Victor, “ and you can see him 
just precisely when I choose to grant you the privilege. And 
I shall not do so until you have promised me to play into 
my hands at Carew Court on the night of the ball.” 

Lotty turned 'ghastly pale, and fell to trembling all over, 
like a leaf shaken by the wind. 

“Oh, Victor! Victor!” wailed she; “you never can mean 
it.” 

He stooped, struck a match on the sole of his boot, and 
lighted a cigar with the utmost deliberation. 

“ My lady,” said he, “ you will soon find out whether 1 
mean it or not.” 

“ You dare not keep a child from its mother!” she cried. 
“ I will report you to the nearest magistrate. Sir Clinton 
Coningsly is a magistrate, and he lives only two miles oft. 
The law shall protect me!” 


168 


claike’s loye-life. 


Victor Kenrick laughed contemptuously. 

“You can not very well carry me off in your pocket,” said 
he. “ And before you can set your pretty little machinery in 
motion, 1 shall just communicate with my friends, and— hey, 
presto! your boy is dropped quietly into some deep pool along 
the London wharves, and neither you nor any one else can set 
eyes on him again.” 

Lotty caught at a tree- trunk for support. 

“ Victor! Victor!” she gasped, “ you -do not speak in ear- 
nest! Tell me that it is all a jest!” 

“ 1 mean what I have said,” he answered. “ I swear it by 
yonder blue vault of heaven above! Choose between your 
child and these people for whom you care nothing — these 
bloated aristocrats, who are rich enough to lose twenty times 
w r hat I shall take from them, and never feel it. And listen, 
girl,” lowering his voice to deep hissing accents, “even if 
you condemn your child to a mysterious death, by persisting 
in this madness, it will avail nothing. There are others be- 
side me who have their eyes on the strong boxes at Carew 
Court; and if they do not come in peaceably and quietly, they 
will come in on other terms. And whatever bloodshed there 
may be will lie on your head. I tell you, 1 mean no harm, 
hlo one will ever be the wiser for it. All we ask of you is to 
leave the little west garden door unlocked. You are to sit in 
Miss Carew’s boudoir during the night of the party.” 

“ How did you know it?” gasped Lotty. 

“ I know more than you think, Mrs. K. You are to sit 
there, at your needle-work, to keep guard. Very well. It is 
Miss Carew ’s pearls that we want. If you are chloroformed 
without your own knowledge, you surely can never be blamed. 
Don’t tremble; you shall not be hurt. I know just how to 
use the drug, and in what proportion. When you return 
comfortably to your senses, as you will do in three or four 
minutes, the thing is done. What can be easier?” 

She still trembled and turned from red to pale under the 
gaze of his basilisk eye. 

“ And — I may have Johnnie back?” 

“ y Pq >> 

“ When?” 

“ Let me see, leaning against a tree, and half closing his 
eyes, as if to reflect. “ The ball is on Thursday. Well, if 
all goes right, you shall have that precious little cub of yours 
‘a week from that time.” 

“ And you will not deceive me this time, Victor? Oh, if 
you only knew — ” 


claire’s loye-life. 


169 

“ My good faith, Lotty, depends on yours/’ he answered, 
dryly. 

“ 1 will not fail you,” said she. “ Oh, to see Johnnie again 
~~to feel my child’s cheek against my heart once more! 
Swear, Victor, szvear that you are not playing me false! He 
is alive?” < 

“ He is alive! I swear it!” 

“ And 1 may have him once more, all to myself?” 

“You shall have him all to yourself; I swear that also — 
always provided,” with a keen sidelong glance at her, “ that 
you are true to yourself and to me!” 

Lotty drew a long, gasping breath, and clasped both hands 
over her heart. The sudden rapture of anticipation was 
checked instantaneously by the chill remembrance of the price 
at which her happiness was to be purchased. Victor had been 
watching her intently. 

“ And if,” he added, “ you fail me in so much as one jot 
or tittle of the plan which you and I will concoct before the 
night of the ball, you will never see the boy again!” 

“ Oh, Victor, you would not murder him?” 

“Would I not? You do not know me yet, Mrs. K.,” 
sneered the husband, “ or you would not venture to speak so 
confidently of what 1 will or will not do. Of one thing I as- 
sure you — and I do not lightly go back from my word — if you 
play me foul, you shall never see the child again, dead or liv- 
ing!” 

One instant Lotty stood looking at her husband as if all 
her senses were concentrated in her wild, startled eyes. And 
then, breaking away from the leafy shelter of the shadowed 
path, she flew along as if trying to escape from the dominion 
of some horrible, haunting thought. 

Victor Kenrick looked after her with a cruel smile scintillat- 
ing around the corners of his mouth. 

“ She's all right,” said he to himself. “ And now to see 
Aspendale once again. For I don’t mean to have the thing a 
bungle this time!” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

MR. CAREW LOSES HIS TEMPER. 

“ How long you have been, Lotty!” cried Mrs, Arbuckle, 
impatiently, as the girl at last entered her room, with uncer- 
tain steps and eyes that still glistened with terror. “ Why, 1 
could have done the distance in half the time.,, and never 


170 


claire’s love-life. 


thought twice about it, when 1 was your age. What kept you 
such a time, 1 should like to know?” 

“ My aunt was not in,” said Lotty, in a low voice, and 
coloring deeply at the falsehood she was compelled to utter; 
“ and I had to wait for her.” 

“ And the flounces?” questioned the housekeeper, testily. 
“ Dear me! it does seem as if 1 never should get anything 
done in this house.” 

“ They were not finished, ma’am,” said Lotty. “ She will 
send them up to-morrow.” 

“ If she doesn’t, she’ll never get any more fine work from 
here, that 1 can promise her,” said Mrs. Arbuckle. “ And 
now, Lotty, run up and take down the lace draperies from the 
library bay-window — 1 noticed yesterday that they were get- 
ting as yellow as saffron — and' give them to the laundress. • 
The light step-ladder is there, I sent Saunders up vvith it— 
and be sure you don’t make a mesh of the lace, for it’s a set 
as Miss Katherine bought in Vienna, and can’t be matched 
this side of the water, not if you was to pay a hundred 
pound.” 

“ I will be very careful, ma’am,” said Lotty, thankful for 
an excuse to be by herself once more, and muse in solitude 
over the great happiness of knowing that her child was still 
alive. 

The library at Carew Court was a large room, with a carved 
oaken mantel, surmounted by a sort of cupboard filled with rare 
china, porcelain, and pottery, and flanked on either side by 
India jars mounted on pedestals of colored marble. All 
around the apartment extended a wainscoting of oak, above 
which cases of books reached up to the very ceiling — old au- 
thors and new— costly editions in gilt lettering, and smelling 
of Russia-leather, and gray old volumes, picked up at London 
book-stalls and in Berlin alleys by Mr. Carew himself at 
different times, and treasured as only a bibliomaniac can treas- 
ure the fancied gems 'that he himself has managed to collect. 
The floor was of dark, polished wood, covered in the center by 
a square of thick crimson carpeting, upon which stood a writ- 
ing-table and two or three easy-chairs. The bay-window, 
fronting toward the gardens, was of great size; in fact, almost 
a second apartment, divided from the library itself by folds ot 
crimson satin drawn across a gilded rod, and containing a tas- 
seled divan, a little round stand laden with pamphlets and 
newspapers, and a jardiniere filled with gorgeously tinted 
Japan foliage plants. The lace draperies to which Mrs. Ar- 
buckle attached such importance were suspended around the 


Claire’s love-life. 


171 


inner sashes of the window itself, under the lambrequins of 
crimson satin fringed with gold; and Saunders, the second, 
footman, had already set up a light folding step-ladder close 
to the casement. 

Light as a fairy, Lotty Corey climbed up to the top, and, 
with the aid of a tiny claw-hammer, commenced her task. 
But it was scarcely more than begun when she heard the 
voice of Mr. Carew in the library. 

“ Come in, Malcolm, my boy,” said he, “ come in. Fm 
very glad you camedown this morning— I don't want you to 
kill yourself in the bank. ‘ All work and no play makes Jack 
a dull boy/ you know, eh? And besides, 1 particularly want 
to speak to you — to consult you, my boy.” 

Malcolm Aspendale laughed. “ Indeed, Mr. Carew,” said 
he, “ I can scarcely imagine any emergency in which my ad- 
vice could possibly be of use to you.” 

“ Can't yon, though? Well, we'll see, we'll see! Sit 
down, Malcolm.” 

And Lotty could hear the easy- chair casters grating over 
the carpet as it was wheeled forward for the reception of Mr. 
Carew’s secretary. She crept down the step-ladder as softly 
as possible, and tried to open the casements which led out into 
the gardens. But, to her dismay, they were all fastened from 
the outside; owing, probably, to the negligence of Saunders, 
whose duty it was to see that all the doors and windows on the 
ground-floor were daily opened in the morning and secured 
again at night. 

“ What shall 1 do?” she thought, nervously crouching 
down in the shadow of the red satin curtains. “ 1 must wait 
until they are gone before I stir, for I never, never can face 
Mr. Carew after — after promising Victor that!” 

So, like a wounded doe, she hid herself away, scarcely even 
daring to breathe aloud, while Mr. Carew talked on, quite un- 
conscious that he had more auditors than one. 

“ Malcolm,” said he, straightening himself up, and glanc- 
ing at the mirror-lining of the cabinet of china and other 
curiosities over the mantel, “ do you call me an old man?” 

“ Certainly not, sir!” Aspendale answered, in some sur- 
prise. 

“ And I'm pretty well preserved, eh, for my time of life?” 

“ No one can doubt that, Mr. Carew,” said Malcolm As- 
pendale, wondering more and more whither .all these prelimi- 
naries tended. 

“ Then what would you say, Malcolm,” went on the old 


172 


CLAIRE" it LOVE-LIPE. 


gentleman, “if 1 were to tell you that I entertain serious 
thoughts of marrying again ?” 

“ You, Mr. Carew! Of marrying again? ,, 

“ Yes, I; why not?” retorted the banker, defiantly. 

Malcolm Aspendale was silent. In truth, he hardly knew 
just at first what answer to make to this very unexpected an- 
nouncement. 

“ It’s lonely here at the Court,” went on Mr. Carew. 
“ We need a mistress of the establishment. Kate is a dear 
good girl, but she’ll be marrying and leaving me one of these 
days — ” 

Aspendale started, and colored to the very roots of his hair. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said he, hastily, “ but — is Miss 
Carew engaged?” 

“ Engaged? No; but of course she will be some time or 
other — God bless her! — and then wbat is to become of me, 
alone, and without sympathy or companionship in the world? 
And besides, think what a blessing it would be for Kate to 
have some lady friend always with her.” 

Malcolm thought within himself that young girls did not 
always regard a step-mother in the light of an unalloyed bless- 
ing. He did not make any comment, however, but waited for 
Mr. Carew to proceed. 

“And so,” added Mr. Carew, “ I’ve decided, after due 
consideration, to ask Lady Lydia Grafton to be my wife. 
She’s a bright, sensible little thing, and has some of the best 
blood in England in her veins, if she’s not exactly a first-class 
beauty like my Katherine, or that handsome vixen who mar- 
ried poor Sir Caleb Huron. I think she’ll accept me — in fact, 
1 may say that 1 haven’t a doubt of it! Eh, Malcolm, don’t 
you think it’s a capital idea?” 

“ No, Mr. Carew, I do not!” Malcolm Aspendale answered, 
with frankness. 

Mr. Carew recoiled at the unexpected rebuff, and stared in 
surprise at his secretary. 

“You — do —not?” uttered he. 

“ No, sir, I do not.” 

“ And why not, may I ask?” demanded Mr. Carew, red- 
dening all over and wiping his forehead vehemently with his 
white silk pocket-handkerchief. 

“ Is it just to Miss Carew, sir, to place over her head a girl 
even younger than herself?” asked Malcolm. “ Is it right or 
prudent to expose yourself to the jeers of the world, for mar- 
rying a girl young enough to be your daughter?” 


Claire's loye-liee. 


173 


“ Let the world mind its own business, and I’ll mind 
mine," retorted Mr. Carew, who was fast losing his temper. 

“ And moreover," added Malcolm, who was fully deter- 
mined to speak all that was in his mind, “ there is another 
thing to consider. If Lady Lydia Grafton refuses you, the 
old friendship between yonr families is effectually broken up." 

“ She won’t refuse me!" shouted the old banker. 

“ If she accepts you," pursued young Aspendale, “ it can 
only be for the sake of your wealth and the luxurious home 
that you can offer her. Sir Caleb Huron’s was just such a 
marriage, Mr. Carew. See how it has turned out." 

“ Young man," said the banker, who had by this time 
worked himself up into a white heat of rage, “ you are ex- 
ceeding your place. How dare you speak so to me?" 

“You asked my opinion, Mr. Carew, and I gave it you 
frankly and without reserve." 

“ Then I’ll thank you to keep it to yourself," shouted Mr. 
Carew. “ Who are you, to talk to me about making a fool 
of myself?" 

“ Pardon me, sir," said Malcolm, gently but firmly, “ that 
was not the expression that I used." 

“ Don’t contradict me /’’ said Mr. Carew. “ You are pre- 
suming, sir. You interfere unwarrantably! 1 never engaged 
you, sir, to pry and meddle in my private affairs." 

“Mr. Carew!" 

“ Hold your tongue, sir!" roared the irate old gentleman. 
“ Do you see that door? Walk out of it — and never let me 
look upon your face again! No apologies — I won’t listen to 
’em!" 

Malcolm’s eyes flashed — his teeth closed firmly against each 
other. 

“ Mr. Carew," said he, “ if you were not an old man, I 
should be tempted to do what I should probably rue all my 
life long. As it is — " 

“ Don’t you hear me, sir?" reiterated Mr. Carew. “ Leave 
my house — and leave it at once!" 

The next minute the library was vacant, and Lotty, who 
had been peeping with scared face through a crevice in the silk 
curtains, parted them a little wider and looked tremblingly 
around the room. 

“ Ought I to call for help?" thought Lotty. “ Will Mr. 
Malcolm strike the old gentleman? I never saw anything like 
the white anger in Mr. Malcolm’s face when Mr. Carew said 
that he was prying and meddling." 

She listened* intently, but all was silent, and almost within 


174 


claire's love-life. 


a second she saw Malcolm Aspendale’s figure pass the win- 
dow, walking hurriedly, and consulting his watch as he went, 
as if intent upon catching some particular train. 

And then, infinitely relieved in her mind that actual muider 
had not been committed, poor Lotty crept back to her work, 
and had the satisfaction of receiving a second scolding from 
Mrs. Arbuckle, when she came down-stairs, both arms full of 
filmy lace material. 

“'Lotty Corey,” said the old lady, glaring grimly upon the 
girl through a portentous pair of silver-bowed spectacles that 
she was wont to assume upon occasions of special hurry or im- 
portance, “ you’ve been nigh upon an hour at that job. 1 
don’t know what’s come to you of late. Either you’re in a 
decline, or you’re in love. And neither of them things is 
favorable to domestic service, young woman, and so I tell 
you!” 

Lotty shrunk before the reproof. 

“ Please don’t be angry with me, ma’am,” said she, hum- 
bly, “ and I’ll try my best to please you next time.” 

“ See that you do,” said Mrs. Arbuckle, wondering how it 
was that she could not be seriously angry with Lotty Corey 
more than a minute at a time. 

Malcolm Aspendale. took the train back to London, scarcely 
able to realize that so serious a rupture had occurred in his 
friendship with old Miles Carew. Why he went to the family 
solicitors, Messrs. Sledge & Summerick, in Dickinson Lane, 
he hardly knew — perhaps with a vague idea of consulting 
them as to some respectable position in which a reduced gen- 
tleman might earn his daily bread without damage to his pride 
of birth. He had a strong taste for literature, but he knew 
that a novice in the ranks, with neither reputation, connec- 
tion, nor the skill born of long practice, could not hope for im- 
mediate success. He had tried his hand at painting, in a 
careless, amateur way, but he knew that London was full of 
struggling artists, nineteen out of twenty of whom were un- 
able to earn their salt. He had some idea that he might suc- 
ceed as usher in a school, or private tutor in a family of boys; 
but he rightly judged that, in an emergency like this, the 
advice of experienced men of the world, like Messrs. Sledge & 
Summerick, would be worth all the trouble he might take to 
obtain it, so to Sledge & Simmerick’s he went on his arrival 
at the London terminus. 

Mr. Summerick, a hale, hearty little man of sixty odd, re- 
ceived him cordially. 

. “ My dear Aspendale,” said he, “ you are the very man we 


claire’s love-life. 


175 


want to see. Isn’t it strange now that we should have been 
talking about you, just five minutes ago? Really, I do think 
there must be something in electricity or animal magnetism, 
or whatever you call it. Come in — come in!” 

And he fairly dragged his astonished young visitor into an 
interior apartment, where books, papers, and musty packets 
of foolscap seemed to have drifted all over the floor, and the 
light that streamed through a dust-enameled window contrast- 
ed with the sickly glare of a gas ‘jet over the center-table. 
And beside this table stood a tall, aristocratic figure, with 
clear-cut features, white hair and dark, piercing eyes — Lord 
Aspendale, of Wild Aspens. 

“ Uncle Laurence!” he exclaimed, involuntarily. 

„The old man held out both his hands — his lips worked, and 
a suspicious moisture glistened under his frost-white lashes. 

4 4 Malcolm,” said he, 44 1 am glad to see you. It’s lonely 
down^at the Aspens. I’ve been wanting you this long time; 
but I didn’t know just where to find you, or how to word my 
invitation. Will you let by-gones be by-gones, my boy, and. 
come back to the Aspens with me?” 

44 With all my heart. Uncle Laurence,” said Malcolm, 
scarcely able to believe his own ears: 

Meanwhile, Mr. Carew, fuming with passion, strode out 
into the shrubberies. He was not a man who often lost con- 
trol of himself, but when he did he was like one beyond the 
bounds of reason, argument, or common sense. And, as luck 
would have it, the very first person he came across, sitting 
under the shade of a grand old mulberry-tree, with a rose- 
lined parasol on the ground at her feet, a book in her lap, and 
a cascade of fluted white muslin flowing around her, was Lady 
Lydia Grafton. He bowed low, with a desperate effort to 
conc&al his embarrassment and confusion 3 she smiled gra- 
ciously. 

44 Is it you, Mr. Carew?” said she. 44 1 was almost asleep 
over my book.” 

44 Do not stir, I beg,” said Mr. Carew, as she made a mo- 
tion to rise. 

44 Well, I won’t, then,” said Lady Lydia, with a yawn. 
44 Isn’t it dreadfully warm, Mr. Carew?” 

44 1 was longing for an opportunity to speak to you, Lady 
Lydia,” he began, determined to put his suit promptly to 
the issue, and let it be decided without loss of time. 

44 Were you?” said Lady Lydia, opening her light-blue orbs 
in some surprise, 44 Well, here is the opportunity. Speak 
on!” 


176 


claire’s love-life. 


“ Yes, I know/’ said Mr. Carew, nervously twirling his hat 
in his hand. “ Lady Lydia — the fact is, I — that is — ahem! — 
Lady Lydia ” — clearing’ his throat and making a fresh start — 
“ would you think it very strange, indeed, if / were to ask you 
to marry me?” 

“ Yes,” said Lady Lydia, coolly; “ 1 should.” 

“You— would?” 

“ Certainly 1 should,” said Lady Lydia, with a little nod of 
the head. 

“ And why?” Mr. Carew’s lower jaw had dropped — he 
stopped twirling his hat, and stared blankly at the young 
lady. 

“ A woman may not marry her grandfather!” saucily re- 
torted Lady Lydia. 

“ Am 1 so old as that V 9 said Mr. Carew, piteously. 

“No, you dear old dunce,” said Lady Lydia, rising, and 
putting her hand gently on his; “ but you’re a deal too old 
to think of making an idiot of yourself by marrying anybody , 
still less a silly girl like me! Why, you’re a deal better off as 
you are! A second wife would worry you into the grave in 
less than a year!” 

“ Do you really think so?” said Mr. Carew. 

“Iam certain of it,” nodded Lady Lydia. 

“ Well, then,” said Mr. Carew, “ perhaps I had better dis- 
miss the idea altogether from my head.” 

“ To be sure you had,” said Lady Lydia, slipping her arm 
through his. “ And now, do take me down to the green- 
houses, and show me the grapes that Mackenzie is forcing for 
the prize at the pomologieal meeting next week.” 

Mr. Carew went down to the greenhouses with Lady Lydia 
Grafton, secretly relieved that she had said “ No” instead of 
“ Yes,” notwithstanding that he still felt a little natural sore- 
ness upon the subject. His matrimonial fever had run its 
course with unexampled rapidity, and he was now in a con- 
dition to be pronounced convalescent. 

“ I wish I hadn’t been so crusty with Aspendale,” he 
thought. • “ The boy only told me the truth, after all. I’ll 
sit down and write him a note of apology — no. I’ll see him 
myself. A man should never be too proud to acknowledge 
that he has been in the wrong.” 

While Lady Lydia Grafton could scarcely help smiling at 
the idea of how near she had come to being Katherine Carew’s 
step-mother. But her nature was as honorable as it was 
frank; and the old banker’s secret was as safe with her as if 
it had been buried at the bottom of a well. 


claire's love-life. 


177 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE BROTHERS. 

“ Shall I go down to the Court, or shall I not?" 

Malcolm As pend ale was sitting in his own room at the Hotel 
Aubry, a quiet family hostelry, just on the edge of the fash- 
ionable world — a place which made no pretensions, but built 
its recommendation to public favor on grounds which had de- 
scended with it from generation to generation; its excellent 
management, the aristocratic quiet which pervaded its halls 
and suites of rooms, and the fact that it was known and fre- 
quented. only by a select few. Among these few the Aspen- 
dale family had been numbered for years. Lord Aspendale 
never came to town without establishing himself in a certain 
corner apartment overlooking a bit of green park, which he 
had come to consider as much his own room as if it were a 
part of Wild Aspens itself. And in a room opening from his 
uncle’s special domain Malcolm was sitting when a letter was 
brought him from Sledge & Summerick’s — a letter contain- 
ing a frank and cordial apology from the pen of the old banker 
at Carew Court. 

“Forget my rash words," wrote Miles Carew, “and re- 
member only that 1 was your fathers friend. An angry 
man is a mad man for the time being; and I believe that for 
a little while yesterday 1 was a fit subject for the lunatic asy- 
lum. But because I have been an old fool it does not follow 
that you need be a young one. 1 have abandoned all thought 
of the foolish and impracticable idea upon which we quar- 
reled, and you need not fear any relapse. Of course I shall 
expect to see you at the ball to-night — that, as you remem- 
ber, is an old understanding between Kate and yourself. But 
I shall not believe that I am really forgiven if you don’t run 
down and tell me so, in the three-o’clock train. 1 shall be at 
the cascade about that time. Those fools have somehow let 
the water-course get clogged up, and nobody seems to have 
any ideas on the subject of hydraulics but myself; and if I do 
7 iot see you, why, I shall feel a great deal more unhappy than 
1 do now, and that is not at all necessary, I assure you.” 

It is needless to add that Malcolm Aspendale’s heart was 
very easily softened toward Katherine Carew’s father — and 
when, by way of empty form, he asked himself, “ Shall I go, 
or shall I not?" his determination had already been formed 
in the affirmative. 


178 


claike’s eoye-life. 


“ Uncle Laurence/’ said he, going into the other apart- 
ment, where Lord Aspendale was busy writing letters, “ you 
must let me off from that engagement to call on Mrs. Chol- 
mondeley with you to-night.” 

“ Eh?” cried the old gentleman, looking up. “ And what 
for, I should like to know?” 

“ I must go to Care w Court.” 

“ My dear boy, I thought you had just come from there!” 

“ So I have. Uncle Laurence, but it is not in human nature 
to resist the pleadings of such a letter as this!” giving his 
uncle the folded piece of paper to read. Lord Aspendale 
glanced over it, with a smile. 

“He must be a frank, outspoken old fellow!” said he. 
“Yes, you are right, Malcalm; such an apology should be 
met in the spirit in which it is offered. Go down, my boy — 1 
would be the last one to hold you back; but don’t stay longer 
than you can help.” 

“ Will you not accompany me, sir? 1 am sure that Mr. 
Carew — ” 

“ Out of the question, quite out of the question!” said Lord 
Aspendale, with a deprecating motion of the hand. “ 1 
promised Mrs. Cholmondeley to be present at her soiree musi- 
cal e, and it’s a deal harder to propitiate an old coquette than a 
young one, 1 can tell you! However, I shall see you to-mor- 
row, and mind you’re ready to accompany pie down to the 
Aspens by Monday next, at the very latest.” 

And so Malcolm Aspendale found himself at liberty to take 
the three-o’clock train to Richmond. 

The carriage he entered happened to have another occupant 
— and by a curious combination of chances that occupant 
proved to be his brother Eustace, with hands deep down in 
his pockets and a suspicious odor of cigar smoke surrounding 
him. He laughed and nodded. ^ 

“Since it’s only you, old boy,” said he, “I may as well 
finish my weed!” 

And taking a cigar from his pocket, he relighted it, and be- 
gan composedly to smoke. 

“ Going down to the Court?” said he. 

“ Yes,” said Malcolm, rather coldly; for he would rather 
have been alone in the carriage, to muse over his own future 
and the bright possibilities which he began to fancy were 
once more unfolding before him. 

“ Curious coincidence, isn’t it?” smiled Eustace. “ So 
am I!” 


claire's love-life. 


179 

Malcolm unfolded a newspaper, and took refuge behind its 
columns; but his brother was not thus easily to be rebuffed. 

“ I say, old fellow,” said he, “‘don't be so crusty. I want 
to speak to you!” 

“ Well, what is it?” Malcolm laid the newspaper on his 
knee, and looked his brother full in the face. 

“ Th^ fact is,” said Eustace, solicitously regarding the end 
of his cigar, “I'm in difficulties — £ s. d. difficulties, I 
mean. ” 

“ You generally are,” remarked Malcolm, dryly. 

“ Yes; but this is a regular Slough of Despond!” said Eus- 
tace, emphatically; “ if you can't lend me two or three hun- 
dred pounds—” 

“^Eustace!” angrily interrupted the younger brother, “ all 
this is sheer nonsense. Y r ou know that 1 can not.” 

“I don't see why,” argued Eustace. “You're first fa- 
vorite with old Carew, and he's made of money, and safe to 
let you have any amount you choose to ask for. '' 

“ Can't you see that is the very reason I do not choose to 
abuse his kindness?” 

“ No, upon my word, I can't!” retorted Eustace. 

“ Then you have not the perceptions of a gentleman,” said 
his brother. 

“ It's all very well to talk about the perceptions of a gentle- 
man,” retorted Eustace, with a shrug of the shoulders; “ but 
when it comes to such a tight place as I am in — ” 

“ If you bad taken my advice, Eustace, about various mat- 
ters,” brusquely interposed Malcolm, “you would not have 
been where you”are now. And you can scarcely expect me to 
help you out 9 f difficulties which you have incurred in direct 
defiance of my advice and counsel.” 

“ I suppose you mean the cards and dice,” said Eustace, 
sullenly. “ But if a man must have money, and play is his 
last resource — ” 

“ Then the sooner a man comes to his last resource the bet- 
ter,” said Malcolm. 

“ My luck is the worst luck in the world,” resumed Eus- 
tace, plaintively. “ I supposed little Claire was going to be a 
rich widow, and my fortune was made; but that idiotic hus- 
band of hers must needs go and cut her off with a shilling, so 
I'm no better than I was before! Couldn't you make it two- 
fifty, Malcolm? Upon., my word. I'll not ask you for any 
more until — ” 

“No, I could not!” retorted Malcolm Aspendale. “And 
I would not, if I could!” 


180 


CtiAIIlE*S LOVE-Lim 


“ A pretty brother for a man to have/* said Eustace, 
angrily. “ If I thought — ” 

“ The fact is, Eustace,” said Malcolm, “ it’s no sort of use 
lending you money. It’s exactly like throwing it down a 
bottomless well. You’re always in difficulty, and I don’t be- 
lieve a Spanish Armada, loaded with coin, would be of any 
permanent aid. With the company you keep, and the habits 
you have acquired — ” 

“ Oh, hang it! stow all that!” interrupted Eustace, almost 
brutally. “1 didn’t ask you for advice; I asked you for 
money. You have said me no — let there be an end of it!” 

And he leaned back upon the cushions with his head thrown 
back and his cigar puffing clouds of scented vapor into the 
air. 

“ Very well.” Malcolm took up his paper and affected to 
busy himself once more with its contents, until the train 
stopped at Richmond. 

“ Going up to the Court directly?” asked Eustace, as his 
brother turned in a different direction at the lodge gates. 

“No.” 

“ Ah,” sneered the elder brother, “ an interview with the 
divine Kate, eh? Well, 1 wish you all luck — you see I don’t 
bear malice, although you’re not willing to do quite the fair 
thing by me in money matters.” 

He walked away with a derisive laugh. Malcolm looked 
after him a second with burning cheeks and veins in which 
the angry blood tingled like electric sparks. He would like 
to have followed the man and felled him to the ground for 
sullying the mere name of Katherine Carew upon his jeering 
lips; but he resolutely controlled the impulse. 

“ I am a fool for allowing him to annoy me so,” he thought. 
“ I ought to know that his nature is on a different plane from 
mine.” 

And, dismissing the obnoxious subject from his mind, he 
took his way direct to the lower cascade, where the glitter of 
the falling water was visible, like a silvery veil, between the 
foliage of the trees. 

Mr. Carew was there, issuing orders, berating the bewildered 
workmen, and contradicting everything that the engineer 
said. He caught sight of Malcolm Aspendale in a moment, 
and advanced to meet him with a curious expression of coun- 
tenance, compounded partly of sheepishness, partly of pleasure. 

“ Malcolm,” said he, wringing the young man’s hand, “ I 
am glad to see you— glad from the very bottom of my heart. 
You've come to stay?” 


CLAIRE* S IOYE-LIEE. 


181 

“Not this afternoon, sir/* Malcolm answered. “I have 
an engagement which compels my immediate return; but I 
will be here this evening. In the meantime, I have much to 
tell you.** 

“ About yourself?** 

“ About myself. I have seen Lord Aspendale.** 

“ Eh?** Mr. Carew lifted his grizzled eyebrows. 

“ And his thoughts and ideas’ have undergone a total 
change upon the subject which separated us. He wishes me 
to return to the Aspens at once.** 

“ And what am 1 to do for a secretary, eh?** demanded the 
banker, looking aghast. 

“Iam sorry to incommode you, sir/* said Malcolm; “ but 
I can not help feeling that my first duty is to my uncle.** 

“Well, well, we*ll talk it over to-morrow/* said Mr. 
Carew. “ I am glad, for your sake, that Lord Aspendale has 
come to his senses again, but — Yes, yes, Thormaudyke, 1 am 
coming — 1*11 see you again this evening, my boy. Ait re - 
voir /** 

And he hurried baftk to the engineer, while Malcolm, with 
a glance at his watch, to make sure that he had time for the 
next return train, stalked off swiftly under the spreading 
boughs of the trees. 

“ To-morrow/* he told himself, “ to-morrow, if all goes 
well, I may venture to tell Katherine of what has been in my 
heart so long. For the heir of Wild Aspens is a different per- 
son in the eyes of the world from the old banker’s salaried 
secretary. I would not ask my pearl of price to shine over 
the troubled uncertainty of a life’ of daily toil; but, if I can 
give it such a setting as it deserves — ** 

His face, ordinarily so pale and grave, grew radiant as he 
strode along over the soft grass, with the delicious scent of 
fern and wild flowers rising up from sun-bathed dells, and the 
level gold of the afternoon light lying across the turf at his 
feet, a shining ladder, over which it seemed as if he might 
walk on and on forever. 

As he paused to consult his watch once more, on the edge 
of a deep glade, where the tree-ferns grew in plumy wilder- 
nesses and a tangle of dark pines whispered together at every 
touch of wind, he caught the sound of voices speaking in low, 
hurried accents below. 

“ I’d have nothing to do with it if 1 wasn*t so deucedly 
hard up, Victor/* said the low voice of his brother Eustace. 
“ But it’s that, or ruin. You’re quite sure it*s safe?** 


182 


claire’s love-life. 


4 4 Do you think I should have been in it if it was not?” re- 
turned another voice. 44 Look here. Come this way, and— ” 
Once more the murmurous accents died out into the musical 
silence of the bird-notes and leaves and twittering insects; 
while Malcolm Aspendale stood still, with a strange chill at 
his heart, wondering what meaning could possibly be attached 
to the disconnected sentences that he had so singularly chanced 
to overhear. Involuntarily he took a step or two downward, 
as if to plunge into the fern-fringed recesses below, and wrest 
the secret, whatever it might be, from his brother’s lips. But 
the next minute he restrained himself. 

44 1 have never been in Eustace’s confidence,” he thought, 
44 and it is rather late to begin now. And 1 shall lose my 
train if I delay another second.” 


CHAPTER XXVI I. 

THE HOUR OF DOOM. 

It was the night of the ball at Carew Court. 

All the afternoon, since the interview with his young secre- 
tary at the lower cascade, the old banker had been in extra- 
vagant spirits; and when at last he issued from his room, in 
immaculate evening-dress, his linen buttoned with solitaire 
diamonds, and his gray hair brushed smoothly over his broad 
forehead, his valet looked after him, muttering: 

44 Stocks has riz, or I’ll eat my own head. I haven’t seen 
the governor in such a good temper, not since I can remem- 
ber. And whistlin’ while he was a-puttin’ on his dress-boots 
— a thing as I can’t call to, mind he’s ever done before since 
the first day I entered his service! It can’t be as he’s 
a- thin kin’ of gettin’ married again, can it?” 

Lady Lydia Grafton delighted in balls, and she had all a 
child’s enthusiastic fondness for lights, dancing, and music. 
Claire Huron had been in her rooms all the afternoon, help- 
ing her select the dress she was to wear, and aiding Janet with 
acceptable hints and suggestions as to its trimming. For 
Lady Huron’s taste was perfect, as even Lady Lydia Grafton 
was forced tc admit. 

44 If / am doomed to seclusion tp-night,” said Claire, with 
an air of angelic resignation, 44 1 can at least have the satisfac- 
tion of seeing you well dressed, dear Lydia! And, perhaps — 
who knows?— you may meet your fate to-night?” 

For, although Claire fully intended to mingle in the festive 
throng that evening, she did not deem it necessary to take 
Lady Lydia into her confidence. 


claire's loye-life. 


183 


The daughter of the Earl of Littleton came down-stairs 
early, in a superb ball costume of light-blue tulle, over silk of 
the same color, festooned with forget-me-nots, and a parure 
of pale sapphires. Miss Carew wore the simplest white mus- 
lin, with roses in her hair and bosom, and a necklace of large 
and beautiful pearls around her full white throat. The 
Countess of Littleton, in black velvet and diamonds, looked 
pale and pretty in her quiet way as she descended into the 
suite of drawing-rooms, which had been decorated with 
flowers by a professional from London in such an artistic 
fashion that it seemed more like a scene from enchanted laud 
i than an actual villa at Richmond. Bowery arches of jasmine 
draped the doors; great palms waved their feathery banners 
from the corners; the marble statues in the hall were veiled in 
tinted Japanese foliage vines, and giant ferns rose in fragrant 
fronds out of banks of camellias and rosebuds. Out-of-doors, 
the purple dusk of the summer evening was all illuminated by 
stars and arches of colored lights, a band was softly playing 
dreamy operatic music by the river, and little boats, carrying 
lights ad their prows, were gliding to and fro, while the groups 
on the lawn had a Watteau-like effect, and the overwhelming 
brilliance of the lights and music in the drawing-rooms 
seemed to pour out of the open windows like a great glitter- 
ing flood, which had broken from its embankments and 
deluged all its surroundings. 

And all the time that the tropic foliage rustled, and the 
lights burned, and the long line of the “ German ” rocked to 
and fro to the sound of harp and flute and throbbing violin, 
Lotty Corey sat alone at her needle- work in Miss Carew's 
boudoir at the other side of the house. She was deathly-pale; 
her features were set in rigid lines, and through all the sultry 
glow of the balmy September night she trembled ever and 
anon, as with a chill, and started nervously at every sound. 

“ Oh, God! oh, God!” she murmured, wringing her hands, 
“ if it was only over!” 

And from afar off came the delicious refrain of the music, 
the sound of gay voices and laughter, and the scented evening 
wind stirred the muslin curtains, and the tiny alabaster clock 
on the mantel seemed to tick as slowly as if its gilded pen- 
dulum were weighted with lead. 

Suddenly a velvet tread sounded cat-like on th8 carpet at 
her side. ‘She started spasmodically, crying out: 

“Victor!” 

“ Be silent!” a voice hissed in her ear — and the next instant 
the filmy folds of a cambric pocket-handkerchief wore flung 


184 


CLAIRE^ LOVE- LIFE. 

over her face — a sickening odor filled her senses, and a deli- 
cious drowsiness lapped all her being. The work fell from her 
nerveless fingers — her head dropped forward on her chest. 

“ There!" said Victor Kenrick, in a whisper, to some one 
beyond, whose head had appeared in the frame-work of the 
open casement simultaneously with his own entrance on the 
scene of action. “ She’s all right. Go on — lose not a second 
of time! Here are the keys of the secretary — IT1 take the 
cabinet myself!" 

Still the music sounded afar off — still the curtains stirred 
languidly, and the clock ticked softly on, while the sweet, 
faint smell of chloroform pervaded thie air, and Lotty Corey, 
slowly emerging from the world of dreams and visions which 
had hung about the scent of the baleful drug, became sudden- 
ly conscious of the sharp report of a pistol sounding close to 
her bewildered ears, and, staggering wildly to her feet, saw 
Miles Carew’s dead body on the floor, and Malcolm Aspendale 
standing over it with a face as white as marble, and eyes of 
dilated horror. 

“ Wretch!" she gasped, the remembrance of the quarrel 
that she had so recently overheard between the banker and his 
young secretary flashing across her mind, an instant explana- 
tion, as it seemed to her, of this horrible scene, “ you have 
killed him!" 

But Malcolm Aspendale neither heard nor heeded her. He 
caught an instantaneous glimpse of a ghastly, terrified face 
peering through the darkness of the casement beyond; a face 
that appeared and then vanished, as faces sometimes do in 
our dreams. But in that one second Malcolm Aspendale had 
recognized his brother Eustace. 

Springing across the room, he swung himself down by the 
boughs of an ancient apricot-tree which grew near by, and 
grappled his brother fiercely by the throat. 

“ Villain!" cried he in a voice choked by rage; “ burglar! 
midnight assassin! what have you to say for yourself?" 

Eustace Aspendale, pallid and trembling, strove to wrench 
himself free. 

“ Do you want to kill me, Malcolm?" he gasped, with start- 
ing eyes and face all purpling. “ Let go! For God’s sake, 
let go my throat!" 

“ Yes," shouted Malcolm, “ 1 would kill you, like any other 
noisome reptile. Help! help! help!" 

But his cry was drowned in the brilliant crash with which 
the distant band was heralding an opening Fanciers, and 
a hand, white and soft, and loaded with rich rings, was laid 


CLAIRE’S LOYE-LIEE. 


l'BB 

over his mouth. A tall, slight form interposed itself between 
the two struggling figures. And in Malcolm Aspendale’s 
amazement he suspended his. hold for a second upon the 
other’s throat. 

“ Lady Huron!” he ejaculated. “In Gocl’s name, how 
came you here?” 

“ Would you betray your brother?” Claire asked, standing 
there, in a floating black dress, a3 if she were enveloped in 
shadows, and pale as alabaster. “ Would you ruin your own 
prospects forever?” 

Malcolm Aspendale’s arms dropped heavily to his side. 
His brother! God help him, it was true! Not even death 
could blot out the bond of their kinship. And whatever black 
clouds of ignominy darkened over Eustace Aspendale’s life 
must rest with reflected gloom upon his own fair name. His 
brother ! 

“ Where is he?” he muttered, hoarsely, as he gazed around 
the arena of shadow and darkness that contrasted so strange- 
ly with the brilliant lights studding the lawn beyond. 

Claire Huron slipped her arm through his, and drew him 
gently away. 

4 4 He is gone,” she answered, with a long breath of relief. 
44 Thank Heaven, he is safe at last! You will never try to 
follow him, Mr. Aspendale— you will remember that he is 
your brother!” 

Malcolm looked at her, his forehead wet with clammy dew. 
AVas he under a spell? and was she the enchantress? 

44 Where are you going?” he asked, in a strangely stifled 
voice. 

44 Back to the house,” she answered, quickly. 44 We have 
been promenading together in the grounds, you and 1, Mal- 
colm Aspendale. We know nothing of what has happened — 
how should we?” 

44 And let him escape?” Still in the same unnatural voice. 

44 Oh, Malcolm,” lifting her white face to his, 44 if you gave 
him up to justice a thousand times over you could never undo 
what is past and gone! And he is your only brother! Come! 
do you see how they are thronging up the wide stair- way? 
Let us go also!” 

And, over the heads of the crowd so suddenly disturbed 
from the mad pursuit of pleasure, Malcolm Aspendale’s tall 
form towered, like that of Saul among his peers, with Claire 
Huron clinging to his arm. He could see, in the center of the 
crowd, only the dead man, with the little pool of gore on the 
rose-colored carpet beside his throat, and something that had 


186 


o litre’s love-life. 


fallen like a white drift of snow beside him — Katherine, in 
her spotless dress and glistening pearls, lying insensible at his 
side. — 

“ Go to her,” whispered Claire. “ Lift her up!” 

He looked at her with a sort of pale horror in his face. 

What are you asking of me?” he returned, in the same 
tone of voice. “ I believe that the dead man himself would 
lift his cold hand to beckon me back if I dared to approach 
his daughter — I, the brother of the man who — ” 

But Claire burst vehemently away from him. 

“ Are you mad?” said she, and made her way to Kath- 
erine’s side, where Lady'Lydia was already kneeling, her blue 
silken dress stained with the horrible creeping stream that still 
kept oozing from the gaping wound in Miles Carew’s throat. 

“ Lord Pereival Wynworth,” said she — “ Mr. Clissold — this 
is no place for Kate! Help me to lift her up, please, and 
carry her to her own room!” 

And Lotty Corey, looking on with wild, frightened eyes, 
could not but observe that Malcolm Aspendale stood aloof, 
with averted eyes and folded arms, as they bore the motion- 
less figure past him. And as she followed, carrying Kath- 
erine’s scarf and pearl fan, she shrunk involuntarily when she 
passed the spot where he stood. For in her heart she believed 
that he was Miles Carew’s murderer. 

Katherine Carew slept long and heavily that night under 
the influence of an opiate they had given her; but Lotty Corey 
kept vigil until day-break, kneeling beside her young mistress’s 
couch, her cold hands clasped on the pillow, her great startled 
eyes shining wildly in the semi-darkness, and her heart 
weighed down with an unutterable burden of despair. 

And when at last she lost herself in a troubled sleep, it was 
less sleep than a phantasmagoria of frightful visions, partly 
born of the intense terror she had endured, partly the afte r 
effects of the chloroform which had been administered to her. 

“ Yes,” nodded Mrs. Arbuckle, in a whisper, to Lady Lit- 
tleton. “ they chloroformed her, my lady, and she come to 
just in time to see Miss Katherine swooning beside the dead 
corpse! Didn’t you smell the drug all through the room? 
No wonder she had that wild look in her eyes, and starts so 
in her sleep, poor dear! Yes, my lady. Sir Humphrey Cliss- 
old has done all that is necessary, and the coroner will be here 
at nine o’clock; and Mr. Sefton has telegraphed to London, 
for the special police. And, dear, dear, my lady, I’m sure 
none of us ever dreamed of such an ending as this to Miss 


CLAIRE 51 S LO YE- LIFE. 187 

Kate’s ball!” added the poor old housekeeper, with a burst 
of tears and sobs. 


CHAPTER XXV1I1. 

CLAIRE CONSOLES HERSELF. 

Gray and chill and sad the November mists were folding 
themselves around the red-brick fa 9 ades and glistening con- 
servatories of Carew Court. 

The river Thames, erst so blue and sparkling, rolled on its 
way, wrapped in sickly fogs; the lawn was covered with dead 
leaves, and the windows of the Court, once so cheery and 
wide open, were closed now, and shielded with shutters with- 
out and drawn curtains within, as if even the slightest gleam 
of daylight were an intrusion^ 

And the Uindly old banker, at whose touch the beauties of 
Carew Court had risen up, as if by enchantment, lav molder- 
ing in his grave, under the slopes of Kensal Green Cemetery, 
with the autumn blasts howling around the tall obelisk 
which towered above his last resting-place. 

It is an old proverb that “ Murder will out,” but it -is by 
no means a well-authenticated saying. Miles Carew had been 
dead for two months, and the secret of his sudden death, as 
well as of the successful diamond robbery which had accom- 
panied it, was yet buried in the profoundest obscurity. 

The inquest, held on the morning after the ball, had thrown 
no light upon the black mystery. Lotty Corey, the seam- 
stress, had testified, with tears and hysterical sobs, all that 
she had to say, which was simply that she had been sitting at 
her work in the boudoir that night, when a handkerchief was 
thrown Over her face, and she knew no more until she came 
to her senses, just in time to see Mr. Carew’s dead body on 
the floor, and a man’s figure, with its back toward her, es- 
caping through the open casement opposite. 

“ Did she recognize it?” 

“ No,” with a shuddering glance toward Malcolm Aspen- 
dale, who stood, with folded arms and eyes fixed intently on 
the floor, near the coroner’s chair. 

“ She was quite sure that it was no one she had ever seen 
before?” 

“ Yes, quite sure.” 

Was he tall or short?” 

She did not know. 

“Did she make any effort to detain him, by word or 
action?” 


188 


CLAIRE'S LOVE-LIFE. 


“ No/' passing her hand with a troubled gesture across her 
forehead, “ not that she remembered. She might have 
spoken, or called out, but she had no distinct recollection of 
having done so." 

“ Did she know of any way in which a thief or burglar 
could have entered the house, unknown to the servants, or 
porters, at the lodge?" 

“No, she did not." 

And then Lord Percival Wynworth whispered to the coroner 
that the witness was very pale, and he feared that she was 
about to faint, and Lotty was kindly bidden to go down. 

And, once again, as she passed Malcolm Aspendale on her 
way out of the room, there was the same involuntary shrink- 
ing from his presence, the startled, sidelong look, as though 
she trembled lest his gaze should blight her, as she hurried by. 

For she believed that Malcolm Aspendale had murdered 
Mr. Carew. She believed that she had perjured herself un- 
der solemn oath. She knew that Victor Kenrick would never 
have permitted her to reveal a single detail of that dark night's 
work, but none the less for that did the guilty secret weigh 
her heart down to the very ground. She had been an invol- 
untary auditor of the quarrel between the murdered man and 
his young secretary, but she was totally ignorant of the recon- 
ciliation which had followed so quickly upon it, and in her 
mind cause and effect had succeeded each other with unpre- 
cedented rapidity. And now to see the murderer standing 
calmly by, among his fellow-men, feigning a grief that he did 
not feel, and outraging the home of his victim by his very 
presence in it, passed Lotty’s comprehension. 

So the inquest was held, and the cold corpse of Miles Carew . 
was laid away out of sight, and the dark mystery still hung 
over the Court. The investigation of the robbery had been 
placed in the hands of the London police, rewards comprising 
an unusual amount were placarded everywhere, and yet no 
light seemed to dawn upon the wretched affair. But few of 
the jewels which had been so successfully stolen were capable 
of identification, and these few were, undoubtedly, kept back 
by the burglars with a skill and caution which, in the eyes of 
the officers of justice, did them infinite credit. 

“ They'll lay as low as they can, depend upon it," said the 
chief, a little, stoutly built mart, with a flaxen mustache, and 
a falcon blue eye that saw everything while it appeared to 
take note of nothing. “But it can't last forever. We've 
only to wait." 

And in the meanwhile, Katherine Carew sat, in her deep- 


claike’s love-life. 


189 


mourning robes, beside the fire, which glimmered redly under 
the marble columns of the mantel in her own room — sat 
there, all alone, from morning until night, starting nervously 
at every sound, and asking herself, in a sort of mute despair, 
what she had done to deserve so terrible a doom as this. 
Lady Lydia Grafton had vainly endeavored to induce her to 
leave the Court, and' accompany her mother and herself to 
London; but Katherine only shook her head at every men- 
tion of the subject. 

“ It is very kind of you to ask me, Lydia/’ said she, “ but 
1 could not go away from the Court, it would be like leav- 
ing poor papa. ” 

“ Shall I stay with you, Kate?” 

“ No.” Miss Carew shook her head. “ I should be none 
the less lonely if the house were crowded full of guests. And 
it will only sadden you, dearest, to be a daily and hourly wit- 
ness of the sorrow 1 could not control.” 

So the Countess of Littleton and Lady Lydia Grafton re- 
turned to Grosvenor Square; but young Lady Huron was not 
so easily got rid of. 

In the first hours of Katherine Carew’s bereavement, Claire 
had constituted herself guardian, comforter, everything, as- 
suming the reins of household government as if they belonged 
to her; and when Miss Carew alluded incidentally to her leav- 
ing the Court, Claire opened wide her handsome eyes. 

“ Do you think I would leave you , Kate?” said she; “ you, 
who were so good to me when I was alone and friendless? Oh, 
never, dearest, never!” 

“ Yes; but, Claire, everything is so sad here, and — ” 

“And am I not sad, too?” retorted Claire, sentimentally. 
“ Oh, Kate, where else could 1 hide my broken, bleeding 
heart but here? Let me stay with you, dearest; let me be a 
comfort and a companion to you while the shadow of death is 
over both our hearts!” 

And so Claire stayed on, and by degrees Katherine Carew 
learned to lean on and love her, in the lonely solitude of the 
Court. 

Hardly a week had elapsed since the funeral of Miles Carew, 
when Lotty Corey came trembling into her mistress’s presence 
one day. 

“ If you please. Miss Kate,” said she, lifting her troubled 
luminous eyes to the face of her young mistress, “ might I 
speak to you?” 

“ Yes.’’ Katherine looked listlessly up from the book that 
lay in her lap. 


190 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


“ If you please, Miss Kate,” went on Lotty, plaiting the 
hem of her apron and averting her eyes as she spoke; “ I’ve 
just heard from a sick friend, down in Devonshire, and she’s 
alone and in great trouble. And she wants me go and nurse 
her. Miss Kate; and, if it wasn’t making too bold, please 
might I go?” 

“Yes.” 

It was a little thing compared with her other troubles, but 
the thought that even Lotty Corey was deserting her in this 
hour of trouble struck to Katherine Carew’s heart like the 
prick of a tiny dagger. 

Lotty ’s quick ear at once detected the pained accents in 
Katherine’s voice. She fell on her knees, close to her young 
mistress’s chair, and caught Miss Carew’s hand in hers. 

“ Oh! Miss Kate,” sobbed she, “don’t think that I’m un- 
grateful! Say that you forgive me, before 1 go!” 

“ Why should I not forgive you?” said Katherine, impa- 
tiently. “ And what is there to forgive? Let go of my hand, 
Lotty — of course I can not expect you to remain here against 
your will.” 

Lotty rose up, with a strange, cowed look in her eyes, and 
crept out of the room without another word. 

“ Did I speak too harshly to her?” thought Katherine. 
“ Poor thing, she is but a child, after all — and it is only nat- 
ural that she should want to get out of this place. Am I be- 
coming uncharitable through all this trouble? Oh, I must 
try to guard against that.” 

And once more she relapsed into the one sad train of 
thought that seemed to swallow up all else in her mind — that 
her kind old father was dead and in his grave, and that Mal- 
colm Aspendale kept studiously aloof from her, in this hour 
of trial and trouble. 

“Even if he did not care for me,” thought poor Kath- 
erine, “ he might have come hither in common courtesy, and 
spoken a few words of condolence, as every one else did who 
knew poor papa. He might at least have been ordinarily 
civil.” 

Even Claire had observed this singular omission on the u part 
of the late banker’s secretary. 

“ Isn’t it strange, Kate,” said she, one day, as the two 
young mourners sat opposite each other, Claire busied on 
some light needle-work, and Katherine looking, as usual, in- 
tently into the fire, “ that Malcolm Aspendale never comes 
here?” 


CLAIRE* S LOVE-LIFE. 191 

Miss Carew roused herself, with an effort, from the 
apathetic reverie into which she had fallen. 

44 Yes/* said she, 44 it is strange.** 

“ Eustace left a card here, the other day, for you,** ob- 
served Claire. 

“ Did he?** 

44 But thought,** went on Claire, narrowly watching the 
face of her friend, 44 that he had better not come in. We do 
not desire to receive visitors just at present.** 

44 No,** said Katherine, quietly. 

44 He seemed deeply grieved for all that has happened, and 
desired his sincerest condolences to be given to you, Kate,** 
the widow added. 

44 He is very kind,** said Miss Carew, apathetically. But 
although she said nothing of it to Lady Huron, her mind in- 
voluntarily reverted to the distrust that her father had so open- 
ly expressed toward Eustace Aspendale. 

That very afternoon. Lady Huron came to her friend as she 
still sat in the same listless attitude, with the book, whose 
pages were never turned, lying in her lap. 

44 Kate,** said she, “1 am going for a little walk in the 
park. Will you not accompany me?** 

Miss Carew shook her head. 44 1 do not care to walk,** 
said she. 

44 It would do you good, dearest.** 

44 1 do not feel like it.** 

And so Claire went out by herself, her crape-trimmed dress 
fluttering in the wind, and the heavy veil thrown aside from 
her black turban. 

Mourning was a peculiarly becoming costume to young 
Lady Huron. Her large, brilliant eyes, radiant complexion 
and shining braids of auburn hair contrasted exquisitely with 
the dead-black material — her small, well-shaped hand glim- 
mered whitely against the jetty background, and the pure, 
clear-cut ivory of her mouth and chin was outlined against the 
black folds of the scarf she wore, like a cameo. Through the 
park she hurried, the fresh roses blooming into her cheeks at 
the touch of the wind— past the line of forcing-houses and 
John Mackenzie*s cottage, along the river-path, into a wild 
and lonely copse, where the yellow ferns shuddered under the 
blast and the leaves rustled sadly as her light foot touched 
their red and russet drifts. 

There, seated on a rustic chair which overlooked the river, 
was Eustace Aspendale, thoughtfully digging the ferrule of his 
Malacca walking-stick into the black mold, and whistling a 


192 


CLAIRE 5 S LOVE-LIFE. 


tune under his breath. He glanced quickly up at the sound 
of Claire’s footstep, but it was not exactly an expression of 
pleasure that lighted up his face. 

“ 1 thought I should find you here/’ said she, her coral lips 
dimpling into a smile. 

“ Will you have this seat?” he asked, rising to his feet. 

“ No, I prefer to stand, Eustace,” with a bright, upward, 
glance. “ Ho you remember that this was the very r spot where 
I was sitting that night 1 told you of Sir Caleb Huron’s pro- 
posal?” 

44 Is it?” 

“ Then you had forgotten. Ah,” said Lady Huron, half 
smiling, “ a woman’s memory is better than a man’s — for 
some things, at least. Hear, dear, how much has happened 
since then!” 

“ Why did you write to me?” said Eustace, abruptly. 
“ Why did you ask me to meet you here?” 

“ Because I wanted-toseeyou,” replied Lady Huron; 4 4 and 
because we don’t receive any gay company up at the Court.” 

“ I am flattered,” said he, sardonically. 

44 Perhaps you won’t be when you know all,” said Claire, 
quietly. “ I only wanted to remind you, Eustace Aspendale, 
that there is one person who knows all about the dark secret 
of that night when Mr. Carew was murdered.” 

He was silent, but still kept on savagely prodding at the 
wet, mossy earth with the brass-bound point of his cane. 

44 You are at my mercy, sir!” resumed Claire, quietly. 
“ I have been at yours long enough!” 

44 Nonsense, Claire!” 

“Is it nonsense? 1 rather think not!” said Lady Huron. 
“ But to return to business. I knew, Eustace Aspendale, 
that you were a chevalier d* Industrie — an adventurer, to use 
common parlance — but 1 never suspected you of being — a 
common thief and burglar!” 

“ * Needs must, when the devil drives!’ ” muttered Eus- 
tace, a deep color suffusing his downcast brow. “ And 1 had 
nothing to do with their schemes, Claire, I give you my honor, 
except just to stand at the bottom of the window and warn 
them of any approach. I might as well not have done that , 
for any good I have gained by it.” 

“Oh!” said Claire, dryly. 44 Then there isn’t always 
4 honor among thieves?’ ” 

44 They’ve been tied hand and foot,” explained Eustace. 
“ They can’t stir for six mouths to come, there’s such a 
deuced commotion about the thing.” 


103 


tjLAIBE 5 S LOYE-Ltm 

“ Eustace,” said Claire, “ you are in my power. And what 
is to prevent me *from giving you up into the hands of jus- 
tice?” 

“ Nothing,” he returned, lifting his eyes with calm inso- 
lence to hers, “ except — ” 

“ Except my love for you!” passionately interrupted Claire. 
“ Oh, Eustace, 1 don't know why it is, or how it is, but I do 
love you; even though I know you to be a villain, a gambler 
— even a thief, 1 love you!” 

Her beautiful wine-brown eyes were lifted appealingly to his 
face — her rose lips quivered as she spoke. It was not in 
human nature to resist her looks, her words. 

“ You are a good girl, Claire,” he said, taking both her 
hands in his, “ and I wish to Heaven that I could make you 
my wife!” 

“ And why can you not?” she burst out. “If you love 
me — ” 

“ If, Claire! When you know that I love you!” cried he. 

“ Then why not risk it all? Together we will meet the 
world on its own terms, and conquer it!” cried out Claire, 
enthusiastically. 

Aspendale looked pityingly at her. 

“ My poor child,” said he, “ you do not know what you are 
talking about! Listen — there is no reason why you, with 
your beauty and youth, should not make a brilliant mar- 
riage yet! I am, as you have said, only a wretched and pen- 
niless adventurer!” 

“ But I love you!” whispered Claire, coming closer to him, 
and laying her hand on his arm. 

“ Do you really mean that you would be such a fool as to 
marry me, Claire?” 

“ Yes!” she answered, softly. 

“ Then do it, in Heaven’s name!” he retorted, brusquely. 
“ But prepare yourself to risk all the consequences!” 

She laughed out a sweet, merry peal. 

“ Consequences!” echoed she. “ Do you think, Eustace 
Aspendale, that 1 am afraid of the world?” 

He stood looking thoughtfully at her. In Paris and 
Vienna, at Homburg and Baden-Baden, he remembered many 
a luxuriously appointed mansion where beautiful women lured 
reckless gamesters to their doom, while the smiling husband 
stood by, ready to rob them, in a gentlemanly manner, of 
every cent at play. And it struck his mind, all of a sudden, 
what a magnificent decoy this lovely young creature would 
make, in a decorous London household, conducted on the 


194 


CLAIRE*S LOVE-LIFE* 


most unexceptionable basis. Perhaps she was right. Per- 
haps, together, they could defy the world on more even terms 
than separately. 

“ My darling girl,” said he, in a low, earnest tone that sent 
the blood leaping to Claire Huron’s heart, “ if you are really 
willing to bind yourself to such a scapegrace as 1 am—” 

“ Oh, Eustace!” 

“ We’ll risk it all, for the sweet sake of Love; and when 
your six months of mourning are out we’ll be married.” 

Half an hour afterward, Claire Huron returned homeward, 
in the red, sullen glare of the lowering sunset, her foot lighter 
than a feather, her face fairly transfigured with the happiness 
that was in her heart. And just as she reached the graveled 
sweep leading up to the house, the cumbrous old Huron 
chariot rolled away from the door. 

“ My mother-in-law!” thought Claire. “ She has been to 
leave a card at the Court, I suppose. What a pity that 1 was 
not there to welcome her properly.” 

And as the near-sighted dowager bent forward, and put up 
her eyeglass to see who it was that gazed so intently at her, 
Claire executed a low courtesy, and smiled a mocking smile at 
her mother-in-law. 

Old Lady Huron leaned back again, as if a wasp had stung 
her, and twitched down the faded brown silk curtains of the 
carriage window. Claire laughed softly to herself as the 
wheels crashed by. 

“ How she does love me, that sweet old mother-in-law of 
mine,” thought she; “ and how gratified she will be when she 
hears that 1 am to be married to her friend, Mr. Eustace As- 
pendale!” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE RISING STAR INN. 

“ If you please, ma’am, can you tell me whereabouts near 
here there is a house called the Rising Star Inn?” 

The post -mistress at Deepvale, who was also the proprietress 
of a thriving “general shop,” where note-paper, pickles, 
starch, corset-laces, and tin saucepans were impartially dis- 
pensed to any one who desired such articles, looked, up through 
her spectacles at a slight, girlish figure leaning against the 
other side of the counter. She was a stranger, and the Deep- 
vale post-mistress disliked strangers; she was singularly 
pretty, and the post-mistress, being pock-marked herself, did 
not believe in pretty persons. So she fiuished marking a 


claire's love-life. 195 

box of newly arrived hosiery, and put it up on the shelf before 
she deliberately made answer. 

“ The Rising Star Inn? Mrs. Jenks’ place?” 

“ I don’t know who keeps it,” said Lotty Corey, whose 
heart was fluttering in her bosom like a frantic bird. “ But 
the name of the house is the Rising Star Inn.” 

“ Humph:” said the post-mistress, “ it’s a mile from here, 
and more.” 

“ A mile!” Lotty ’s countenance fell. 

“ But we’ve a very decent fly, and a careful driver,” added 
the post-mistress, “ as’Jl take you there for half a crown, 
and — ” 

“ Oh, I could not afford to ride,” hastily interrupted Lotty. 
“ I — I’m very poor, and I have only just enough money to 
pay for my return ticket. And 1 think 1 can walk the dis- 
tance if you will kindly' tell me where the place is.” 

“Humph!” again snorted the post-mistress, diving down 
into her box of Extra Assorted Barley Drops to replenish a 
half-emptied glass jar in the window. “ Well, it’s just on 
the straight road from here. You can’t miss it.” 

“Yes, but—” 

“ Do stand aside, can’t you?” said the post-mistress, sharp- 
ly. “ Can’t you see the rector’s parlor-maid a-waitin’ for the 
letters?” 

And Lotty shrunk, coloring and abashed, out of the general 
shop, as the rector’s parlor-maid, an overdressed young per- 
son in a pink bonnet and an imitation Paisley shawl, rustled 
consequentially up to the counter. 

“ A mile further,” she thought to herself, as she gazed 
wistfully down the long stretch of sunny, dusty road. “ And 
I thought I had leached the place already. Oh! Johnnie, 
darlin^little Johnnie, shall 1 never find you?” 

And once more Lotty toiled along the footpath which wound 
by the side of the road, sometimes overgrown by grass and 
thistles, sometimes shaded by gnarled pear-trees, whose boughs 
stretched over garden walls.’ Her dress was worn and shabby, 
her coarse littie straw hat powdered over with the dust and 
cinders of railway travel, and she was very pale. But there 
was the fevered light of excitement in her eyes, and she 
scarcely knew how tired she was, as she walked along, carry- 
ing crumpled up in her hands a little slip of paper on which 
were scrawled the words, “Rising Star Inn, Deepvale, 
Kent.” More than once she had to sit down and rest, how- 
ever; and had it not been for the kindness of a passing carter, 
wEo offered her a “ lift ” for a quarter of a mile in his straw- 


claire’s love-life. 


m 

lined wagon, she 'might very possibly have broken down en- 
tirely before she had reached her destination. 

“ Here’s the Rising Star, miss/’ said he to Lotty, as he 
checked his slow horses in front of the green which sloped up 
to the rustic inn. “ And there’s Mrs. Jenks, now, a-lookin’ 
out of the door. Speak up bold, miss, and don’t be afeard, 
for Mrs. Jenks do be a main good-hearted woman!” 

For the carter had somehow got it into his head that Lotty 
was in quest of a place for domestic service at the Rising Star 
Inn, and meant, in his rough way, to afford her a word of 
kindly encouragement. 

“1 am much obliged to you,” said Lotty, as she climbed 
down out of the wagon. 

“ Kindly welcome, my lass!” said the carter, and, chirrup- 
ing to his horses, he proceeded on his lumbering way, while 
Lott}q with red spots blazing on either cheek, and heart 
thumping loudly in her breast, hurried up toward the house 
to claim the treasure that she had bought so dearly. 

Mrs. Jenks had just reseated herself in the bar, and taken 
up her knitting, as Lotty entered. She looked up in some 
surprise, for the patrons of the Rising Star Inn were mostly 
of the masculine gender, and strangers in that quiet locality 
were rare. 

“ Well, what is it?” demanded she, rather curtly, for 
Lotty’s girlish beauty and dusty dress inspired her, as it had 
done the Deepvale post-mistress, with a sensation of distrust. 

“ Is this the Rising Star Inn, ma’am?” depreeatingly asked 
the girl in a trembling voice. 

“ Well, 1 should ha’ s’posed as you might ha’ read that 
much on the sign outside,” said Mrs. Jenks, clicking rapidly 
away at her needles, “ that is, if you can read at all!” 

“ Monsieur Borbonneau sent me here,” said Lotty, reciting 
with parrot-like docility the lesson she had been taftght, and 
secretly wondering if the plump landlady would hear the loud 
beating of her heart. “1 am his wife!” 

“ His wife!” repeated Mrs. Jenks, in a shrill voice. “You 
needn’t go for to tell me no such story as that , for I know 
better. Monsieur Borbonneau’s a widderer.” 

Lotty looked at her in grave surprise. 

“ There’s some mistake here,” said she. “ I am his wife. 
He has sent me here for the — the little boy!” 

; “ There is a mistake, sure enough,” said Mrs. Jenks, drop- 
ping her knitting-work and leaning over the half door of the 
bar. “ If you are his wife, young woman, what did he come 
here for, and make hisself out a widderer?” 


claire's love-life. 


197 


“ We had parted," said Lotty, coloring deeply. “I, was 
living in service. Perhaps that is what he meant. " 

“/ likes straightforward dealing, without any twists and 
turns," said Mrs. Jenks. 44 And he certainly called hisself a 
widderer, and cried as nateral as life!" 

“But the child," persisted Lotty. 4 4 He said you had the 
child here." 

44 And so 1 have," said Mrs. Jenks. 44 But how am I to 
know as you ain't an impostor?" 

Lotty hurriedly drew from the pocket of her dress and" gave 
the landlady a folded slip of greasy paper, on which was 
scribbled the words: 

44 Mrs. Jenks will please deliver child to bearer, and oblige 

44 E. Borbon neau. " 

44 As if the poor dear was a pound of cheese!" said Mrs. 
Jenks, with a sniff. 44 Of course he's sent the money by you, 
young woman?" 

44 What money?" eagerly questioned Lotty. 

44 The money as he was to pay for the little chap's board — 
five shillings a week, for thirteen weeks." 

44 He said nothing about that," Lotty responded, with vary- 
ing color. 

44 1 warrant me he didn't!" said Mrs. Jenks, with asperity. 
44 And me a-clothin' the child with my ovvn grandchild's 
clothes all this while, and no end of trouble with him!" 

44 1 will pay you all," cried Lotty, feverishly eager, 44 if you 
will only give me time! I did not know we were in your debt. 
I've a bit of money saved up at home, and I'll pay every 
cent." 

44 That sounds something like it!" said Mrs. Jenks, ap- 
provingly. 44 But I'd a deal sooner as you'd settle up the ac- 
count now, ma'am, meaning no offense." 

44 Oh, I could not do that!" said Lotty, with a troubled 
look. 44 Yic — Monsieur Borbonneau gave me only just -enough 
money to pay for my ticket to and from London. But in- 
deed, indeed, Mrs. Jenks, you shall be no loser by your kind- 
ness to my child; God bless you for it!" 

And Mrs. Jenks looked into Lotty's suffused eyes, and be- 
lieved her. 

44 Well," said she, 44 I'll have to risk it, anyhow. And I 
s'pose you'd like to see the little chap?" 

Lotty clasped her hands under her worn shawl, and drew a 
short, sobbing breath. 

44 Where is he?" she could only gasp. 44 Oh, take me to 


108 


CLAIRifS LOVE-LIFE. 


him! My little boy— my child that I have not seen for so 
long!” 

“ Mariar!” shrilly spoke up the landlady to some one in an 
inner apartment, “ run down into the medder, and tell the 
children to fetch Johnnie up here. His mother’s come for 
him.” 

“ Couldn’t 1 go?” demanded Lotty, eagerly. For, at the 
very sound of baby Johnnie’s name, she felt as if she must fly 
to him. 

“ Bless your heart, no!” said the landlady. “ Them chil- 
dren is like so many wild creeturs when once they gets loose 
from school, and there’s no tellin’ where they is, nor where 
they isn’t. Sit ye down by the fire, and have a bite of cold 
meat and a sup of ale, just to bring a bit of color into them 
pale cheeks of your’n. Mariar knows the children’s ways, 
and she’ll be back with your little lad in the twinkling of an 
eye.” 

And Lotty sunk, perforce, upon a wooden chair beside the 
cheery hearth-stone, while Mrs. Jenks, whose heart had soft- 
ened considerably toward the stranger, made haste to slice 
some cold beef, and draw a foaming glass of ale. But before 
she had time to hand them over the bar, the inner door was 
partially opened, and she was beckoned out. 

Lotty sat gazing abstractedly into the fire, a smile already 
on her lips, her arms tightened across her bosom as if wee 
Johnnie already lay in their clasp. So long since she had seen 
him — so short a while before she should hold him close, close 
to her throbbing heart. 

But why were they keeping her waiting so long? Why did 
not Johnnie come? Lotty was. just rising, in an agony of im- 
patience, when the door beyond her opened, and Mrs. Jenks 
came in, pale as a sheet, and wringing her hands. 

“ The good Lord only knows how I shall tell you, my dear!” 
gasped she; “ but — but the children got into old Newhouse’s 
garden, where there is an unused well, with a lot of boards 
over, and the boards have give way, and — and your little 
lad’s drowned, Mrs. Borbonneau!” 

Lotty uttered a wild, wailing cry, and clasped her hands 
over her head. 

“ Not mine!” she cried. “Oh, not mine! Little 
Johnnie couldn’t go to his death with his mother so near! 
Say it’s one of the others, Mrs. Jenks! Johnnie was so little 
and tender — oh, surely, surely, it never was him!” 

And then, reading no light of possible hope in the good 


Claire's loye-life. 399 

landlady’s face, she fell, sobbing and moaning, to the floor, 
with her cheek against the ston.e hearth. 

“ Don't take on so, dear," soothed the landlady, “don't! 
It wasn't no one's fault— it was the Lord's will!" 

“ It was not!" shrieked Lotty, pushing the buxom land- 
lady away from her. “ It was never the Lord's will to take 
my baby from me, just as I had found him again. But, 
oh, sweet Heaven!" — with a wild gesture of despair toward 
the blue sky that smiled in from the opposite window — 
“ ought I not to have known beforehand that Thy curse was 
on the ransom with which I bought back my child? Oh, God 
help me! what shall I do? Whither shall I turn? Oh, 
Johnnie, Johnnie!" 

Mrs. Jenks stood looking on in silent awe; but before she 
could think what soothing words to utter, Lotty was at her 
side, clinching her plump arm in feverish eagerness. 

“Where is he?" said she. “Where have they left him? 
If 1 can not have my Johnnie alive, I will have him dead!" 

Mrs. Jenks strove to hold her back. 

“ Don't go. a-nigh him, dear," said she, “ until they've 
straightened him out a little decent like. If you should see 
him now, you’d never forget it to the day of your death." 

But Lotty persisted. “ Take me to him," said she, with a 
face of white, set despair. “ Who should go to my Johnnie, 
if not his mother? Who should see him but me? Take me 
to him, 1 say. Oh, Mrs. Jenks, you are a mother yourself — 
for the love of Heaven, don't keep me here, but take me to 
where my dead boy lies!" 

And the landlady, unwillingly compelled to accede, silently 
led the way through a shady little country lane, across one or 
two stretches of meadow land, into an overgrown vegetable- 
garden, circled around with a tumble-down stone wall, and a 
gate which hung only by one hinge. At the further end was 
an uninhabited cottage, and gathered in a corner, close by, 
was a group of people, all looking down at something in their 
midst. 

“ There's Kewhouse's well," said Mrs. Jenks, stopping and 
clasping both hands over her eyes. “So go on by yourself, 
if go you must. I couldn't take another step, not if you was 
to give me a hundred pounds." 

Instinctively the little knot of gazers parted before Lotty 
Corey's flying footsteps, and in another second she found her- 
self standing beside a long-unused well, garlanded around with 
tall weeds and trailing vetches, its circular sides of cut stone 
glistening faintly in the afternoon sunlight, and here and there 


200 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


a damp, straggling fern lifting its sickly head from between 
the crevices of rock. It might have been twelve feet or so 
deep; but to Lotty Corey’s agonized eyes it seemed twice as 
far to the place where a tiny heap of clothing lay in a strange, 
contorted attitude, and a white, upturned face was pillowed 
in a pool of shining water— the face of poor, poor little 
Johnnie! 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE PURPLE PANSY. 

Past twelve o’clock — and the May sunshine was streaming 
gloriously into the windows of a gem of a little house in Park 
Lane — a house whose balconies were filled with roses, steph- 
anotis, heliotropes, and the most expensive hot-house flow- 
ers, whose casements were draped with violet brocade, and 
whose whole appearance was that of luxury and elegance. 
And a young man who was sauntering slowly past, looked up 
at the front, and exclaimed to his companion: 

“By Jove! Hartnett, what a little beauty of a house! 
Whose is it?” 

“ Don’t you know?” said the Viscount Hartnett, staring 
hard at the casements, as if he expected to encounter some 
familiar face peeping out from between the folds of violet silk 
and snowy lace. “ I thought everybody in London knew 
where the Purple Pansy lives.” 

“ Who is she?” eagerly questioned the other, the Honora- 
ble Mr. Lascelles, who had just returned from finishing his 
education at the University of Bonn. “ A danseuse V ’ 

“Ho, my dear boy; but a most exemplary young, married 
lady!” lazily answered Viscount Hartnett. 

“ Then why the mischief do you call her by such an out- 
landish name?” 

“/ don’t call her so. The world calls her so. Why, I 
can’t tell — except that she always wears purple pansies in her 
hair and bosom, and purple is the prevailing color throughout 
the house — a good idea, by the way, for it’s most wonderfully 
becoming to her. But if you want to know what the ‘ Court 
Guide’ calls her, I can tell you. She is Lady Huron — and 
her husband is one Mr. Aspendale — and a deucedly handsome 
pair they make!” 

“Is the house as pretty within as it is on the outside?” 
questioned Mr. Lascelles. 

“ The prettiest house in London!” Hartnett enthusiastically 
responded. 


claire's love-life. 


201 


44 Then I think 1 shall get you to introduce me there/' said 
the Honorable Mr. Lascelles. But Viscount Hartnett shook 
his head, with a smile of peculiar meaning. 

44 I wouldn't," said he. 

“ Why not?" 

44 Oh— because." 

44 Isn't it respectable?" demanded Lascelles. 

“ Eminently so." 

“ Don’t people in general visit your Purple Pansy?" 

44 A few ladies do — and a great many gentleman." 

44 Hartnett," cried out Lascelles, wheeling around so as to 
look him full in the face, 44 what do you mean? Do, for once, 
leave off discoursing in enigmas, and speak plainly." 

44 Well, it's no secret," observed the other, carelessly. 
"Here it is. Lady Huron is charming — a houri — a siren 
— a dove-eyed Cleopatra among women! Her morning re- 
ceptions are always crowded — her 'petit soupers are unexcelled. 
But her husband, the good-Iooking.Mr. Aspendale, will play. 
And, if you'visit Lady Huron, you can not well avoid a game 
at billiards, or ecarte, or rouge-et-noir, with her husband. 
And — without aspersion be it spoken — in a paraphrase of the 
Divina Commedia , he who plays with Aspendale leaves all 
cash behind." 

44 You don't mean that he — cheats?" 

“ Not at all. Nobody ever accused him of cheating — to my 
knowledge. All that 1 know is, that people are beginning to 
give him a wide berth. If a man is really such a superior 
player, why, of course, one is inclined to button up one’s 
pocket, and pass by on the other side. The Purple Pansy's 
society is worth a good deal— but, then, it map be purchased 
too dearly." 

“ I should like to know her," said Mr. Lascelles, medita- 
tively. 

“ You'll find it an expensive experience." 

44 Will you introduce me?" 

“ Oh, of course, if you desire it. She receives at three — 
we'll make it convenient to drop in at about that time." 

And while these two representatives of the jeune&se r , dor ee 
of London society were discussing the history of No. 1502 
Park Lane, Lady Huron herself was entering the breakfast- 
room, more radiantly beautiful than ever, with clusters of 
dewy velvet pansies in her red-gold hair, and a dress of violet 
cashmere, all its seams corded with gold, and a sumptuous 
gold-tasseled belt about her taper waist. 

The breakfast-room was small but perfect. Flowers, fresh- 


202 


claire’s love-life. 


ly sent in and arranged by a fashionable florist of Covent Gar- 
dens, were in the broad, low window-seats; birds hung in the 
sunshine, and the rarest china, cut-glass, and silver glistened 
on the sideboard. A fire of Liverpool coal blazed on the 
hearth, and, in a melon-puffed easy-chair of violet velvet, be- 
side the blaze, sat Mr. Eustace Aspendale, reading the “ Morn- 
ing Post.” 

“ 1 thought you were never coming!” said he, ungracious- 
ly, as he flung aside the paper. 

“ Am I late, dearest ?” said Lady Huron. “But, then, 
you know, it was nearly morning before 1 got home from Lady 
Monteagle’s,” with a yawn. 

Mr. Aspendale sat down to his breakfast, and eat and drank 
of the most expensive luxuries of the season in moody silence. 
But when the table was cleared, and the softly stepping but- 
ler had departed, closing the door behind him as if its hinges 
revolved on velvet, he looked darkly up at his wife, who was 
coaxing a pet canary to come down and perch upon her taper 
forefinger, ,where blazed a huge emerald set around with 
brilliants. 

“ 1 say, Claire!” ejaculated he. 

“ Well, my dear? Little Chiquita, come, and you shall 
have seed.” 

“ We’ve about come to the end of our rope,” said Aspen- 
dale, gloomily. 

“ By that 1 am to uhderstand — ” 

“ That we have neither cash nor credit left. Is that plain 
enough for your comprehension?” 

“ But, Eustace, why?” interrogated the Purple Pansy, 
turning her large, wine-like eyes upon her husband’s gloomy 
face. “ Isn’t business as good as ever?” 

“No.” 

“ Why not?” she persisted. 

“ How can I tell?” with an impatient shrug of the shoul- 
ders. “ People are beginning to fight shy of me, that is very 
evident.” 

“ That must be your own fault, Eustace.” 

“It is not ,” he retorted, savagely. “As if every one 
didn’t know that these things run in grooves. You are the 
fashion to-day — to-morrow you are forgotten. We are out of 
money— and the confounded trades-people are getting clamor- 
ous. Something has got to be done.” 

The canary had by this time fluttered down upon the white 
forefinger. Claire spoke caressingly to it, and coaxed it with 
choice seeds. 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIEE. 203 

44 1 wish you would put that thing down, and talk to me, 
Claire,” suddenly and sharply spoke Eustace. 

Lady Huron put -the bird back in the cage, and turned 
obediently to him. 

44 What shall I say, dearest?” said she. “ How can X help 
you?” 

“You can go to your friend. Miss Carew, and borrow more 
money.” 

44 Oh, Eustace, 1 can not.” 

44 And why not?” shortly questioned her husband. 

44 Don’t you know, dear? Don’t you remember how good 
she was to me when we were married? She presented me 
with a trousseau which a princess might envy; she gave me a 
bridal gift of a thousand-pound note; she is the only friend I 
have left in all the world! Eustace, you know that there is 
nothing I would not do for you; but, please, please, do not 
ask me to estrange Kate Carew!” 

44 That is just like a woman,” surlily retorted Aspendale. 
44 She’s always ready to do precisely the things you don’t 
want her to do. And what is a friendship worth that can’t 
stand the strain of a little borrowing and lending?” 

44 1 saw your brother at Lady Monteagle’s last night,” said 
Claire, taking no heed of his last words. 44 Why can not you 
go to him for pecuniary assistance?” 

44 As well attempt to extract blood from a stone,” returned 
Eustace. 44 Do you suppose 1 haven’t tried that long ago?” 

44 He might help you, X am sure,” said Claire, with an in- 
jured manner. 44 Every one says that he is high in favor 
with Lord Aspendale. 1 don’t see, Eustace, why you are so 
excluded from the good graces of this adopted uncle. ” 

44 He never liked me,” said Eustace, shortly. “Malcolm 
was always his favorite since we were boys together.” 

44 There is no accounting for tastes,” said Lady Huron, 
with a shrug of her shoulders. “ Listen, Eustace: go to your 
brother; tell him you are in need; ask him for a temporary 
loan.” 

44 Don’t I tell you I’ve asked him before?” 

4 ^ Never since we were married.” ■ 

44 What difference does that make?” 

44 Oh, a great deal,” answered Claire, laughing. “You 
are a respectable, settled-down member of society now — and 
1 am Kate Carew’s friend.” 

44 He never cared for Kate Carew.” 

“ But 1 know that he did!” asserted Lady Huron, with a 
decided nod of the head. 


204 clause’s LOVE-LIFE. 

“ Then why hasn’t he married her long ago?” 

“ Why does the current of true love never run smooth?” 
counter-questioned Lady Huron. “ Never mind that. Go to 
your brother, and try your luck with him.” 

“ It will be time and trouble thrown away!” insisted Eus- 
tace, moodily striking at a lump of coal with the poker. 

“ At least make the trial,” urged his wife; “ and then, if 
it should prove unsuccessful — ” 

“ As it most assuredly will.” 

“ Well, then, when it proves unsuccessful I will go to Kate 
Carew and borrow money of her, although I would almost 
sooner cut off my right hand!” 

“ Don’t talk nonsense,” broke out Eustace, almost sav- 
agely. 

Claire looked at him with the tears coming into her eyes. 
Could he speak thus to her, and the first year of their wedded 
life barely past? 

“ Eustace,” said she, “ you forget that I am — your wife!” 

“And I wish to goodness you wasn’t!” amiably retorted 
the young Benedict, as he gave the lump of coal its final blow 
and rose to his feet. 

A slight spasm passed across Claire’s face, but she laughed 
the matter off as if it were a capital joke. 

“I really think you had better make the attempt, Eus- 
tace,” said she; “ because, if we are really so much in need 
of ready money — ” 

“ I shall not, and there’s an end of it!” said Eustace, sav- 
agely. 

The Purple Pansy stood a minute balancing her slender 
fingers on the edge of the picturesquely draped mantel, and 
looking out at the radiant spring sky; then she turned to her 
husband. 

“ Eustace,” said she, almost timidly, “ may 1 go?” 

“ Go where?” he demanded, roughly. 

“ To Malcolm, to ask him to lend us a little money, until 
— until we are ready to repay it again.” 

“ Yes,” he answered, “you may go, if you are partial to 
wild-goose chases— for I warn you that it will be of no avail. 
He’ll only administer to you a pious homily, and send you 
away as badly off as you came. I’ve tried the experiment be- 
fore, I tell you!” 

“ At least I shall fry it once more,” said Claire. “ Who 
knows what victory I may be able to win over this cold, im- 
maculate brother of yours?” laying her jeweled hand softly 
on her husband’s shoulder. 


CLAIRE'S IOVE-LTEE. 


205 

He looked up with a short, sullen laugh. “ If you're 
thinking of a flirtation, Claire — 

“ But I am not thinking of a flirtation, Eustace!" impa- 
tiently retorted Lady Huron. “ Do you suppose 1 don't know 
the material that I work with? Do you suppose that I am 
unaware that Malcolm Aspendale is colder and less impressi- 
ble than any statue of bronze or cast iron?" 

Eustace rose up, still staring moodily at the fire. 

“ Well," said he, “ you can try it. At all events, you can 
but fail." 

“ May 1 have the carriage?" she asked, “ or are you going 
to use it this morning?" 

For among other extravagances of the newly married couple 
they had set up a beautiful little myrtle-green coupe, lined and 
cushioned with the softest puffed satin, and equipped with a 
servant in livery and two high-stepping horses, whose harness 
glittered with gold-plate, as if it had been dipped in the stream 
of Pactolus, and whose glossy chests were flecked with foam. 

“ I shall not use it," he answered, curtly. 

“ Then au revoir, dearest." 

She came up to him, and lifted her smiling coral lips for a 
kiss. He waved her away with a gesture of impatience. 

“ Don't be a fool, Claire," said he. “ Don't you see that 
I am in a hurry? Ping and tell them to bring my hat and 
gloves." 

Poor Claire! She obeyed without a word, but the quick 
dew had suffused her eyes, while a scarlet flush passed rapidly 
across her brow. She had her faults and failings, this “ Pur- 
ple Pansy " of the gay world, but she loved Eustace Aspen- 
dale with the deepest and most passionate devotion of which 
her nature was capable, and his growing indifference stung 
her. to the quick. There is such a thing as retributive justice 
in this world, and Claire was beginning to taste the bitterness 
of the cup which her hands had so often held to the lips of Sir 
Caleb Huron. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“I HAVE MISJUDGED HIM!" 

The porter of the Theseus Club was fast asleep over his 
newspaper in the softly carpeted corridor of that aristocratic 
institution, when he felt his shoulder briskly grasped, and 
started up to behold a tall footman in a gold -banded hat, 
buckskin breeches, and a coat glistening with gold-plated but- 
tons. 


&0(> J CLAIRE*S LOTE-EIF& 

“ Come, wake up, old Dead-alive!” said this gigantic s&rvi- 
tor. “ If they pays tip-top wages at this 'ere place for this sort 
o’ work, blamed if I doesn't apply for the sitivation myself!” 

“What do you want?” drowsily demanded the porter. 
“ And what do you come droppin' down on a cove like this 
for?” 

“ I wants Mr. Aspendale,” replied the footman; “ Mr. Mal- 
colm Aspendale. Lady in a carriage outsid'e wants to see 
him. Take him this 'ere card.” 

“ He ain't here!” asserted the porter. 

“Just you jump around and see whether he is or not,'' 
briskly retorted the footman, “ or I'll report you to the Com- 
mittee on Internal Arrangements for neglect o' dooty!” 

“ Leastways,” corrected the porter, “1 ain’t seen him 
come in to-day.” 

“ The lord mayor and common council might ha' come in, 
in reg'lar procession, and you not know!” said the servant, 
sneeringly. “ I say, look sharp, will you! Me and my missis, 
we can't wait all day, to say nothin' of the hosses!” 

Thus adjured, the lazy porter arose, twitched up his shirt 
collar and shook down his coat-sleeves, and finally disappeared 
behind a pair of noiseless crimson baize doors. And, in a 
minute or two, the footman returned to the carriage, and 
touched his cockaded hat to its occupant. 

“ Mr. Aspendale's compliments, my lady,” said he; “ and 
he will be down directly.” 

Lady Huron looked very lovely as she leaned back among 
the satin cushions of the coupe, in an expensive carriage cos- 
tume of violet velvet, slashed and trained with satin of a 
lighter shade. Her hat — she never wore anything that was 
not direct from Paris — looked as if it were constructed entire- 
ly of pansies and puffed blonde; her gloves fitted her to perfec- 
tion, and on the cushion at her feet rested a tiny boot of violet 
satin buttoned with jet. She leaned smilingly out of the 
carriage window, as Malcolm Aspendale came down the wide 
marble steps of the Theseus Club House. 

“ You are surprised to see me?” said she, archly. “ Come, 
confess that you are! But 1 went to Lord Aspendale's house 
in St. Arminius' Square, and they told me that I should proba- 
bly find you here! And 1 wanted to see you very, very much, 
indeed!” 

Malcolm bowed with cold courtesy. He was the same Mal- 
colm Aspendale that he had been a year and a half ago, only 
paler and graver, and more self-contained. He was ordi- 


Claire’s love-life. 207 

narily polite, and nothing more, to the beautiful sister-in-law 
whom he had never either liked or respected. 

“ Indeed!'’ said he. “ In what way can I have the honor 
of being useful to you?” 

“ Are you very busy?” Claire asked, sweetly. 

He consulted his watch. 

“ I am free for the next hour.” 

She drew aside the gleaming satin skirt of her dress, to 
make room for him, with a siren-like smile. 

“ Then come with me,” said she: “ we can talk as well 
here as in the drawing-room at St. Arminius’ Square. Tell 
the coachman to drive toward Bayswater — anywhere — for an 
hour.” 

Mr. Aspendale complied rather reluctantly; the carriage 
door was shut, and they rolled away. 

“Well?” Malcolm was the first to break the silence. 

Claire glanced wistfully up into his face. 

“ Malcolm,” said she, hesitatingly, “ 1 have a great favor 
to ask of you. I want you to lend me a thousand pounds.” 

“ To lend it to you V’ 

“ To lend it to me and Eustace,” she explained. “ We are 
in great need of money just now. We have, somehow, been 
living beyond our income, and — ” 

But here she was interrupted by Mr. Aspendale’s cold, 
clear voice. 

“ From whence is my brother’s income, as you call it, de- 
rived, Lady Huron?” 

Claire looked up with a startled face — then down again at 
the pearl tablet which she was nervously fingering. 

“ I — I don’t know,” said she. “ How should I know any- 
thing about his business affairs?” 

“ 1 will tell you, then,” said Malcolm; “ for in my opinion 
a wife should be cognizant of all her husband’s affairs. Do 
you know what the world calls your elegant little house in 
Park Laue?” 

“No,” she answered, with burning cheeks and downcast 
eyes. 

“ They call it a gambling den!” 

“ Then they speak lies,” flashed out Claire. “ Of course 
Eustace plays— -so does every gentleman nowadays.” 

“ There are different styles of play,” dryly retorted Mal- 
colm. “ However, I do not pretend to censure or advise; 1 
merely tell you this to convince you that 1 am not entirely 
ignorant of all that is transpiring around me.” 

“ And you will not grant me the boon 1 have humbled my- 


m 


claike's love-life. 


self to the very dust to ask?” cried she, in an agony of morti- 
fication. 

“It is not that 1 grudge the mere pounds, shillings, and 
pence. Lady Huron,” said Malcolm, looking pityingly down 
at her, for there was something in her large, wistful eyes and 
tear-wet lashes that appealed even to his resolutely steeled 
heart, “ but that I know Eustace too well to believe that any 
sum, however munificent, would be anything more than a 
drop in the bucket of his mad extravagance. And, moreover. 
Lady Huron — ” 

“ Well?” Eor he had paused with a strange cloud darken- 
ing his brow, and eyes that gazed afar into the distance, as if 
they saw some unwelcome vision. 

“ You should know as well as I,” he added, in a low but 
perfectly audible voice, “ that there never again can be any- 
thing in common between me and — Miles Carew’s mur- 
derer!” 

He had grown deathly pale, and shivered as he pronounced 
the last three words. 

“ What are you saying-?” cried Claire, in genuine surprise. 
“ What do you mean?” 

“ Lady Huron, it is quite useless for you to feign this as- 
tonishment,” said Malcolm, indignantly. “ You were present 
as well as I — you know as well as I do that — ” 

' “ Stop!” said Claire, breathlessly. “ You are under some 
strange hallucination, Malcolm. You are dreaming, or in- 
sane! Eustace a murderer? His hands are as free from the 
stain of blood as my own! I saw the shot fired, too late to 
save the poor old banker’s life. I saw the midnight assassin 
fling the pistol down among the bushes, and escape through 
the laurel hedge!” 

“ And he was — ” 

“A short, dark man, masked. A perfect stranger to me!” 

“Claire,” cried Malcolm, with a long breath, “are you 
telling me the truth?” 

“ The truth, so help me Heaven!” solemnly averred Lady 
Huron. And gazing keenly into her eyes, Malcolm could not 
doubt her words. 

“ God be thanked for this,” said he, solemnly; “God be 
praised that He in His mercy has seen fit to lift this heavy 
burden of shame and crime from my heart! But, Claire, why 
did you never tell me this before?” 

“ Because I never supposed that you could for an instant be 
laboring under such a frightful delusion as this,” said Claire. 
“ How should 1?” 


Claire’s love-life. 


209 

u And Eustace — why has he always shrunk before any men- 
tion of the subject?” cross-questioned Malcolm. “ If he is 
not a criminal, why has he always borne the aspect of one?” 

-Claire’s eyes fell before his searching gaze. 

“ Malcolm,” said she, 44 can’t you guess? Don’t you know? 
Didn’t you conjecture at the time that poor Eustace was 
somehow — not through any fault of his own, you know— en- 
tangled with that band of ruffians who organized the burglary 
at Carew Court? He knew one of the ringleaders — the man 
had a hold on him — and my husband was not a free agent. 
He had nothing to do with the burglary— he shared none of the 
booty; but — but — Oh, Malcolm, don’t ask me to turn back 
to that one dark page in poor Eustace’s life! It has been re- 
pented in sackcloth and ashes long ago. He was guilty in 
nothing, except in being in involuntary complicity. But as 
for anything more — oh, Malcolm, for what do you take my 
husband? Do you forget that in his veins and your own the 
same blood flows?” 

44 And was this — the burglary alone — what you meant that 
night when you pleaded with me to spare him from the lash 
of public justice?” 

44 That was all! All ! I swear it!” 

44 Then,” said Malcolm Aspendale, with a long shuddering 
inspiration, 44 1 have cruelly misjudged my brother! God 
forgive me for the injustice I have done him!” 

44 You have misjudged him all along,” interposed Lady 
Huron, quick to take advantage of the momentary revulsion 
of her brother-in-law’s feelings. 44 You have treated him 
cruelly! For he is your only brother, Malcolm Aspendale!” 

But Malcolm hardly heeded what she said. His thoughts 
had reverted instantly to Katherine Carew, the woman he had 
loved— the woman he still loved, with a deep under-current of 
devotion which neither separation nor death could ever stem 
—the woman from whom he had voluntarily estranged him- 
self all these months— and a great tide of joy rose up tumultu- 
ously into his heart. 

4 4 Claire,” said he,' turning to his sister-in-law, “ how much 
money do you want?” 

Lady Huron’s pulses leaped joyously within her at the vic- 
tory which she felt that she had won. 

“ A thousand pounds would help us out of our worst diffi- 
culties,” said she, hesitatingly. 

44 Very well; 1 will send a check, made payable to your 
order, to-night— a thank-offering, Claire, for what you have 
this day told me.” 


claike’s love-life. 


210 

And he took her hand in his, and gazed into her eyes with 
more of genuine kindness than he had ever before accorded 
her. 

“ I would have told you long ago,” said she, “ had I ever 
dreamed of your falling under such an unaccountable misap- 
prehension as this. And, Malcolm — ” 

44 Yes.” 

44 Your kindness emboldens me to ask yet another favor,” 
said Claire, pleadingly. “ Will you come to dine with us to- 
night?” 

44 Yes,” he answered, after a moment’s reflection. 

44 It will seem like a reconciliation,” said Claire, her wine- 
brown eyes glowing radiantly, her face brightened. 44 Dear 
Eustace will be so delighted, and I — Oh, I can’t tell you, Mal- 
colm, how I have felt this strange and unnatural separation 
between your brother and yourself!” 

But Malcolm Aspendale’s manner was unconsciously freez- 
ing over again. 

44 You are very kind. Lady Huron,” said he; 44 but I am 
afraid that Eustace and I were never particularly congenial, 
and -it is, perhaps, rather late in life for us to strike up any 
warm amity. But I feel bound to apologize to him for mis- 
construing his conduct so cruelly — and, therefore, I shall be 
very happy to dine in Park Lane with you this evening.” 

And on this agreement they parted, Malcolm feeling as if 
his heart was lighter than any feather within him. Lady Huron 
more than satisfied with her morning’s work. 

When she had set down her brother-in-law at the gate of 
the little park which adjoined St. Arminius’ Square, she drove 
straight to Lady Littleton’s town house in Grosvenor Square, 
and sent in her card to Miss Carew. The servant, quite 
dazzled by the glittering auburn tresses, the j-obe of violet vel- 
vet and satin, which trailed a yard and a half on the floor, and 
the solitaire diamonds, which sparkled like drops of clear dew 
in her ears, showed her at once into the drawing-room — the 
very drawing-room where, two years before, she had stood, in 
the April evening, the countess’s humble companion, with 
Katherine Carew, in dead-white silk costume and pale gold 
hair opposite to her, and Lady Lydia, sitting prone on the 
rug, discoursing, in her school-girl fashion, on the all-impor- 
tant subject of love and lovers. A triumphant smile over- 
spread her brow as memory pictured the ulaire Colonsay of 
those days — the shabby, ill-dressed young governess, with a 
dubious past and a more uncertain future— and, in contrast 
to all this, she viewed herself in the mirror, in velvet and dia- 


Ml 


dLAIEE*S LOYE-LXEE. 

monels, and contemptuously compared Lady Littleton’s sub- 
stantial but rather old-fashioned drawing-room with her own 
exquisite little apartments in Park Lane. 

But, after all, she asked herself, with a sharp, sudden pang 
at her heart, was she any happier? She bore "a titled name, 
she was the wife of the man she loved most dearly in all the 
world, she drove in her own carriage, and had the satisfaction 
of seeing her own name, morning after morning, in the lists 
of brilliant receptions given by bright, particular stars in the 
fashionable world— and yet, was she any happier than poor, 
shabby Claire Colon say had been? 

The thread of her reverie was suddenly broken by the en- 
trance of Katherine Carew, looking fairer and more serenely 
beautiful than ever in the black robes she still persisted in 
wearing for the memory of her dead father. 

“ My beauty,” said Lady Huron, caressingly, “ how lovely 
you are! And how long it is since I have seen you!” 

She sat down on a low divan with Katherine’s hand in hers, 
her eyes fixed tenderly on Katherine’s face. 

“ I go out so little,” Miss Carew apologized. 

“ 1 know why it is,” said Claire, in the prettily pathetic 
manner that she could assume at will. “ The Countess of 
Littleton and Lady Lydia Grafton don’t like me. They have 
never liked me since I cast off the hateful yoke of Sir Caleb 
Huron’s mother, and followed the dictates of truth, instead 
of feigning a hypocritical grief that 1 did not feel! Oh, Kate, 
dear Kate, promise me that you will never let them prejudice 
your loving heart against your poor lonely Claire!” 

“ There is no need for the promise, Claire,” said Miss 
Carew, softly. “ Neither Lady Littleton nor Lydia are wom- 
en to attempt any estrangement between us.” 

“ I’m not so sure of that,” said Claire, shaking the glitter- 
ing fluffy masses of golden hair that drooped over her fair 
forehead. “But if 1 can only be sure that you love me 
still. — ” 

“ Dearest Claire, can I ever forget your kindness to me, all 
those dreary weeks at Carew Court, after they had laid poor 
dear papa away out of my sight?” said Katherine, with 
suffused eyes and quivering lip. 

“ Then I shall fear nothing!” said Claire, brightly. “ And 
If you really like me a little, you will grant the request lam 
here to make, and come and dine with me, en famiU'e, to- 
night. ” 

Miss Carew shrunk perceptibly from the idea. 

“ I go so little into society,” said she, pleadingly. 


813 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


“ But this isn’t society!” argued Lady Huron.^ 

“ Indeed, Claire, you must excuse me,” said Katherine. 

Claire rose with a sigh, and a perfumed rustling of satin and 
velvet. 

“ I knew it,” said she, resignedly. “ Didn’t I tell you so? 
You look down upon your poor Claire, now that you are Lady 
Littleton’s guest. You have forgotten all the old days. Well, 
I ought not to be surprised — but 1 can’t help being a little 
grieved.” 

And she lifted a costly lace-bordered handkerchief to her 
eyes. 

“ Claire!” 

“It’s all very well to talk,” sobbed Lady Huron; “but 
what are words worth when actions can sting so cruelly?” 

And poor Katherine had to buy peace at the cost of con- 
cession, and Lady Huron drove away from the house in 
Grosvenor Square, smiling and self-satisfied. 

“ Malcolm shall see that we are not ostracised from all so- 
ciety,” said she to herself, “ and Kate Carew shall recognize 
the fact that Eustace is on excellent terms with his brother. 
Whatever happens, we must contrive to keep up a smooth 
front before the world. ” 

Lady Huron’s little dinners were quoted as models in the 
gay circle of society. It was not that they were so expensive, 
or that the carte was so rare and perfect. People could not 
say ivhy they were successes; but the fact that they were suc- 
cesses was universally conceded. Cross old peers, who would 
be persuaded to go nowhere else, sat and smiled benignly 
across the mahogany at the tiny house in Park Lane; dra- 
matic stars shone on Lady Huron’s horizon; fashionable ladies 
came there, not because they liked the lovely hostess, but be- 
cause they hoped to discover the secret of Lady Huron’s at- 
traction. The table was almost buried in its profusion of 
costly hot-house flowers; the chandelier above was draped in 
smilax when smilax was half a crown a yard, and the slender- 
necked vases of the great silver, frosted epergne were filled 
with maiden-hair ferns when maiden-hair ferns were pro- 
nounced an impossibility at any price in Covent Garden. The 
lights burned softly, without any vulgar glare of abundant 
gas; for Lady Huron always lighted her house with wax can- 
dles, as being a more becoming illumination to the female 
face; the servants moved noiselessly, and the champagne was 
always perfectly iced. And as for the cost of all these lux- 
urious accessories, nobody knew or cared anything about that 
but the creditors. 


claire's lov£-liee. 


213 

It was nearly seven when Malcolm Aspendale entered Lis 
sister-in-law’s drawing-room, where three ladies were sitting 
before the fire — Lady Huron herself; a Miss Cecil, who had 
just made a brilliant debut upon the literary world in the 
shape of a three-volume novel, and who was a beauty in a 
glowing brunette style; and a third person, tall and golden- 
haired, with serene blue eyes, and*. a dress of some lustrous 
silver-gray material that shimmered in the fire-light like folds 
of luminous moonbeams — Katherine Carew. 

Mr. Aspendale grew pale; Katherine colored like any June 
rose; but Lady Huron came calmly forward, and introduced 
Miss Cecil to her brother-in-law. 

4 4 Of course you have read that delightful book of hers,” 
said Claire, as the gentleman bowed low. 44 Kate Carew is 
an old friend of yours, I believe, and you must excuse Eus- 
tace’s non-appearance. He will be here in five minutes. 
Ursula,” to Miss Cecil, 44 come into my boudoir and see some 
exquisite new prints that Lord Jamestown has sent me; there 
is one face that is exactly like yours.” 

And so Malcolm Aspendale was left alone in the uncertain 
glow of the fire-light with Katherine Carew, both their hearts 
beating fast, both their colors varying with every second. 
But Katherine was the first to break the strange, embarrassing 
silence. 

44 1 hardly expected to see you here to-night, Mr. Aspen- 
dale,” said she, coldly. 

44 Nor I you,” spoke Malcolm, in a low, hurried voice. 
44 But believe me. Miss Carew, it is a pleasure all the greater 
for being unanticipated.” 

“ Is ft?” 

4 4 Miss Carew,” he began, 44 what must you have thought 
of me all these months? What must have been your idea of 
a man who — ” 

44 Do you really want to know what I thought of you, Mr. 
Aspendale?” said Katherine, with the royal impassive dignity 
of a queen. 

44 Even though it were fatal to my self-respect. Miss Carew? 
Yes.” 

44 1 thought,” Katherine slowly uttered, 44 that the man 1 
had trusted and believed in was in no way different from the 
rest of the world. That what I had foolishly construed as 
friendship was mere indifference.” 

44 And you believed that of me. Miss Carew?” 

44 1 believed that of you, Mr. Aspendale. Do you blame 
me?” 


3i4 CLiini?S LOVE-tlFfi. 

Malcolm rose from his seat and walked once or twice np and 
down the flower-garlanded length of the pretty room, where 
the bisque statuettes glimmered faintly in the rosy dusk, and 
the boxes of mignonette in the windows freighted the air with 
drowsy sweetness. Then he came back and stood by the low 
easy-chair, where Katherine sat playing idly with her fan of 
pearl and satin, her eyes fixed dreamily on the fire. 

“ May I tell you all. Miss Carew?” said he. ‘ 4 It is not in 
human nature to endure your blame quietly, and without any 
attempt at exculpation. May I tell you why 1 have stood aloof 
this weary while? why I have made no sign when my heart 
was sorest, to think of all that you have endured?” 

“ If there is any excuse for your conduct,” said Katherine, 
with imperial composure, “ I shall be glad to hear it.” 

“ 1 believed,” said Malcolm, lowering his voice so as to be 
heard by her alone, “that my brother Eustace was darkly 
entangled in the chain of circumstances that resulted in the 
death of Mr. Carew. I even fancied — nay, do not start and 
turn so pale — that his was the hand that hurled the dead man 
into the presence of his Maker. He was my brother. Miles 
Carew was your father, much honored and greatly beloved. 
Do you wonder now that 1 shrunk, like one guilty, from your 
presence? Do you marvel that even while my heart bled for 
your sufferings, 1 dared not look upon your face? No, do not 
speak,” he added, as her lips moved as if to utter some wild 
protest. “ I have to-day learned, for the first time (how and 
when it matters not), that I have all along been mistaken — 
that my brother is as innocent as myself!” 

“ Thank Heaven for that!” cried out Katherine, frantically 
clasping her hands. 

“ Thank Heaven for that!” Malcolm impressively repeated. 
“ And now. Miss Carew, can you forgive me? Can you believe 
that while 1 seemed coldest, my heart was most f ull of passion- 
ate grief— of sympathy that was beyond the utterance of 
words? Can you believe that I have loved you all this time, 
that 1 love you still, hopeless as my devotion may seem? Oh, 
Miss Carew, when 1 first began to speak 1 did not mean to say 
all this; but now that it is said, 1 would not recall one solitary 
syllable.” 

“ Nor would I,” said Katherine, softly lifting her dreamy 
sea-blue eyes to the face that bent so passionately above her 
own. The tone struck encouragingly upon his ear. 

“ Miss Carew — Katherine,” he began, hurriedly, “ may I 
say all that I would have said upon that memorable evening 
at the Court, if Death had not interposed between us? May 1 


\ 


claire's loye-life. 215 

tell you how dearly I love you — how my heart's most precious 
wish has been to call you my wife?" 

And as he knelt beside her, she let her fair young face fall 
upon his breast, and sobbed out: 

44 Oh, Malcolm, if papa were only here now, 1 should have 
no wish left ungratified in all the world!" 

44 Dear Kate, you love me, then?" 

4 4 Yes!" she murmured, as if half frightened at the sound 
of her own voice. 

44 You have loved me all this time?" 

And once again she whispered: 

44 Yes." 

How long that evening appeared — and yet, how short! To 
Katherine Carew, ever afterward, it seemed like the delicious 
lapse of a dream. Lady Huron looked intently at her once 
or twice — but otherwise she took no notice of the lovely car- 
mine color that glowed in her friend's cheek, the tender, dewy 
light that shone under her drooping eyelashes. But when the 
evening was over, and Katherine was putting on her fur-lined 
silk cloak in Claire's own little apartment upstairs, the letter 
put her arms softly about Miss Carew's neck, and whispered: 

44 Tell me about it. Beauty! Does he love you?" 

44 Yes." 

44 And he has asked you to be his wife?” 

44 Yes." 

44 Oh, Kate, 1 am so glad!" cried Claire, for once speaking 
out of the fullness of her heart. 44 We shall be sisters now, 
in truth and in fact! Oh, my love, my love!" 

She did not come down-stairs again until some time after 
her guests had departed, and then the little drawing-room was 
full of other company — Mr. Aspendale's bonnes camar cities, 
who did not generally drop in until after midnight, when the 
green curtain had fallen over the operatic stage, and the the- • 
aters were all closed. And when at last they were gone, and 
the gilded dial of the mantel clock pointed to three in the 
morning, Claire turned to her husband, who had come yawn- 
ing back from seeing Sir Sempronius Silveredge to his cab. 

44 Well, Eustace," said she, gayly, 44 1 have two pieces of 
good luck to tell you!" 

44 What are they?" said Eustace, rather sulkily. 44 If they 
are good luck, they're rarities!" 

44 One is that your brother has sent me a check for a thou- 
sand pounds!" 

44 Bravo!" cried Eustace. 44 1 shall send you begging to * 


m 


claire’s love-life. 


him again, since your efforts have met with such distinguished 
success! And the other?” 

“ Your brother Malcolm has proposed to Katherine Carew, 
and has been accepted.” 

She looked up radiantly in her husband’s face, as if expect- 
ing him to share her delight; but, to her surprise, his brow 
clouded darkly over. 

“ The deuce he has!” he cried. “ Malcolm always did have 
the devil’s own luck. And only to think that my chance was 
as good as his at one time — if only I hadn’t been fool enough 
to clog myself with a wife!” 

Claire laughed — she thought, of course, that Eustace in- 
tended the words in jest; but she perceived her error when 
her husband pushed her rudely awa^y. 

“ You women are fools enough to laugh at anything!” said 
he. “1 am going to bod.” And he strode, yawning, out of 
the room. 

Claire sunk listlessly into a chair, and sat looking at the fire 
with her chin resting in her hands. 

“ Ah, happy Kate!” she thought, with a pang of envy. 
“ You are just entering into the enchanted land of Love; be- 
hind me the doors are closing forever!” 

And she was still sitting there when the gray dawn peeped 
in at the east, and gave her pallid brow a sicklier pallor still. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 
lotty’s journey. 

Six o’clock in the morning, and a faint gleam of sunshine 
struggling through fog and mist was trying to penetrate the 
dingy, unwashed panes of a window in one of the dismal tene- 
ment courts of the city of Manchester. Pale workmen hurry- 
ing out with dinner-pails on their arms — sickly women looking 
after the departing figures, with w r an hands shading their 
brows, and haggard children clinging to their skirts — venders 
of dapiaged vegetables raising the cry of their trade in narrow 
lanes and ill- ventilated ways — rag-pickers - creeping out of 
nooks and corners, with red, blinking eyes, and great bags 
weighing down their stooping forms — milkmen hooting at 
wide-open door-ways— a general stir of languid, sickly life 
proclaimed the dawn of another day of hard work and patient 
endurance, and Lotty Kenrick, stretching her neck to get a 
glimpse of a distant clock-tow r er, murmured softly to herself: 

“Six o’clock— and I must wake Victor now* though he 
sleeps so soundly that I hate to disturb him.” 


CtAIRE’s LOVE -LIRE. 


31 ? 

She gave one glance at the tall tin coffee-pot on the stove, 
and the plate of dry toast in its oven, before she crossed the 
room to a rude bed, where, with his arms Hung above his 
head, and his broad chest rising and falling at every respira- 
tion, like a young gladiator, her husband lay asleep. She laid 
her hand on his shoulder. 

“ Victor,” said she, softly, “ Victor! wake up. It's six 
o’clock.” 

He sprung, half dressed, from the bed, growling out an 
oath at her. 

“ Is my breakfast ready?” snarled he. 

“ Everything is ready, Victor.” 

She spoke in a subd ued voice, with a timid, sidelong glance 
at him, as if she were in bodily fear of some sudden outbreak 
of violence. He deluged his head and face under the water- 
faucet in the corner, ran his fingers through his thick blonde 
curls, and completed the operation of dressing with no un- 
necessary delay. Then he sat down and devoured his break- 
fast with almost savage haste, and in total silence. 

“Victor,” said Lotty, hesitatingly, as he finally rose and 
buttoned his shabby great-coat about him, with the air of one 
about to take his leave, “ where are you going?” 

“If it was any of your business, Mrs. K., 1 should have 
told you before,” said Victor, reaching for. his hat. 

“ Shall you be gone long?” she ventured. 

“ Perhaps, yes — perhaps, no. All you have to do is to stay 
here quietly until 1 come back. If any one comes to ask for 
me, say Pm absent on business.” 

“ And if the landlord ask3 for his rent?” 

“ Tell him to wait!” 

And so the exemplary husband strode out of the room, 
banging the door behind him, with small regard to the nerves 
of the shrinking woman he left behind. 

Lotty looked after him with a long, weary sigh. Sad ex- 
perience had taught her to connect these long and repeated 
absences of her husband with no good object. Danger and 
dishonor seemed to surround them on every side, and she, 
alas! was powerless to avert them. 

She sat spiritlessly down, with her chin in her hand, and 
looked drearily out of the window, where two dirty children 
were making mud pies in the gutter, and a forlorn old rag- 
picker was diving with her iron hook into an ash-box, in search 
of some possible scrap of paper or cinder, when all at once a 
tiny voice from an adjoining closet piped out the words: 


218 


CLATRE ? S LOTE-tl£E. 


“ Mam- ma! mam-m a! Me wake up, mamma. Me wants 
to play.” 

Lotty's face grew radiant at once; her eyes softened, and a 
smile broke out around her haggard lips, as she hurried to the 
door of a small, dark room, where little Johnnie was sitting 
up in a crib, his golden hair all tangled about his forehead, 
his blue eyes shining with the dewy brilliance of recent sleep. 

Johnnie's very self, in truth and in fact! For, when he 
had fallen down the unused well at the Rising Star, some mer- 
ciful guardian angel had preserved him from any more serious 
harm than a few scratches and a bruise or two, and he had 
been taken out, stunned and insensible indeed, with the 
blood-stains matting his yellow curls, but still alive; and the 
awful shadow of this crowning grief was averted from Lotty 
Kenrick's life. And he was now a chubby urchin of three 
years old, as rosy and pretty as the fondest mother's heart 
could desire. 

He scrambled away from his mother's kisses, deftly scaled 
the side of the trundle-bed, and pattered, barefooted, out to 
the stove. 

“ Dress Johnnie here, mamma," said he, expanding his lit- 
tle hands to the heat of the small fire. “ Papa is gone — 
Johnnie isn't afraid now." 

Lotty sighed softly as she made haste to attire the small 
form in the scanty but scrupulously clean dress which had 
been ornamented with needle- work by her own fingers during 
the few leisure minutes that she could command, and pre- 
pared a bowl of sky-blue milk and bread for the child's break- 
fast. And while Johnnie was devouring it, with the eager 
relish of a healthy, hungry boy, Lotty took up the scrap of 
newspaper which had been wrapped around the loaf, and be- 
gan to glance listlessly over it. 

But the very first paragraph upon which her eyes fell sent 
the blood in a hot current to her heart, and paled her cheek 
to the hue of ashes — a few words, printed under the head of 
“ Fashionable Intelligence," which ran thus: 

“We learn that the marriage of Miss Oarew, of Carew 
Court, Richmond, to Mr. Aspendale, of Wild Aspens, will 
soon be celebrated at the Court, and will probably be one of 
the most brilliant affairs of the season." 

Lotty dropped the paper, and involuntarily started up. 

“ Never!" she cried. “ Never while 1 have a voice to 
speak, or limbs to drag me to the foot of the altar!" 

Johnnie stared at her with the spoon in his mouth. 


claire’s loye-life. 


2VJ 


“ What, mamma?” said he. “ What?” 

“ Nothing, darling, nothing.” But she was pacing up and 
down the room with clasped hands and working lips. Sud- 
denly she paused in front of the little fellow. 

“ Johnnie,” said she, with varying color, and voice that 
trembled in spite of her efforts to steady it; “ would you like 
to go and stay with Mrs. Macray and little Robbie?” 

“ Yes,” said Johnnie, still doing his best to strangle him- 
self with the pewter spoon. 

“ Because,” went on Lotty, eagerly, “ Robbie has a set of 
tin soldiers and a story-book, and Mrs. Macray will tell you 
about Little Red Riding-hood and Jack the Giant Killer.” 

• “Me likes Wed Widing-hood,” observed Johnnie, com- 
placently. “ And mamma corno too?” 

“Mamma can’t come, Johnnie,” said Lotty, hurriedly. 
“ Mamma has to take a journey into the country.” 

Johnnie scrambled off his high chair and trudged to his 
mother’s side. 

“ Me go too!” said Johnnie. 

“ Oh, my darling, you can not.” 

“ But me ivill,” persisted the child. “ Me don’t care for 
Robbie Macray and the tin soldiers. Me likes mamma best.” 

“ My love — my little darling,” coaxed the young mother, 
showering loving kisses upon the golden hair and ruddy 
cheeks. But when Johnnie was sound asleep in his midday 
nap, Lotty stole up to the room of Mrs. Macray, a hard- 
working seamstress, who occupied the room directly above her 


own. 

“Eh?” said Mrs. Macray, in surprise, glancing at Lotty’s 
bonnet and shawl; “ sure, you’re not going out?” 

“ Y 7 es, 1 am,” said Lotty. “Iam obliged to go on a little 
journey, and it may be two or three days before I get back.” 

“And the child?” said Mrs. Macray, whose own little lad 
was but a year or so older than Johnnie. 

“ That’s just it,” said Lotty. “ I can’t take him with me, 
because I’ve a deal of walking to do— such as we can’t ride 
about in our own carriage, Mrs. Macray, nor yet pay railway 
fares — and lie’s too little and tender. So 1 thought if you’d 
kindly let him come up here and stay with Robbie—” 

“And welcome,” said Mrs. Macray, kindly. “ He’s no 
more trouble, Johnnie ain’t, than the kitten on the hearth.” 

“And I’ll do as much for you, Mrs. Macray,” said Lotty; 
“ if ever the time should come when you waut a helping 
hand. Here’s half a crown, as’ll buy bread and milk for him 
until 1 come back^ and here’s the key of the door— and I’ll 


22 0 


CLAIR E*S LOVE-LIFE. 


j ust slip away now, while he’s asleep, lest he should cry and 
fret to go too, poor baby!” 

“ It’s better that you should — a deal better,” said Mrs. 
Macray, sagely. “ He’ll pine a bit after you, just at first, I 
don’t doubt; but, dear heart! the tin soldiers and Hobble's 
new pop-gun will soon set it all right. And he shall sleep 
with Robbie, and I’ll take the best care of him, Mrs. Kay, 
never fear.” 

A,nd Lot ty, who was known in the Manchester lodging- 
house under the name of Kay, thanked the kind seamstress, 
with tears in her eyes, and tiptoed softly past the door of the 
room where Johnnie lay asleep, with a longing, lingering 
glance at its crack. 

For, since the day up*on which he had been given back to 
her, as it were from the gates of the grave, she had never left 
him without a sharp pang at her heart, a sickening sensation 
of evil to come. And even after she had reached the corner 
of the noisome little court, she hurried, pale and panting, 
back to Mrs. Macray’s room. 

“ You’ve not forgotten anything?” said the seamstress, 
apprehensively. 

“No,” said Lotty, with her hand pressed to her throbbing 
breast. “But — but if my husband should come back — I 
don’t much expect that he will; but if he should — don’t let 
him take Johnnie away anywhere without my knowledge, will 
you?” 

“ Sure,” cried honest Mrs. Macray, “ he wouldn’t do such 
a thing!” 

“ He might,” said Lotty, with wild, wistful eyes. “ But 
you’ll keep Johnnie safe until I come back, won’t you?” 

“ That 1 will,” asseverated Mrs. Macray. “ Never you fear, 
Mrs. Kay! You’ll find the blessed lamb as safe when you 
come back as he is now.” 

And thus cheered and encouraged, poor Lotty went on her 
way. 

At the nearest second-hand clothing store she stopped, and 
made the best bargain she could for a worn black cloth 
sacque, which she had bought in the days of her service at 
Carew Court. 

“ Ten shilling!” echoed the dealer, contemptuously. “ Ten 
shilling for this old thing! You must be crazy, good wom- 
an!” 

“ It’s very little worn,” pleaded Lotty, shrinking involun- 
tarily from the hard voice and rude stare of the dealer; “ and 
I need money sorely.” 


claire’s love-liee, 221 

“ The first ain’t true,” insolently retorted the man, “ and 
the second ain’t business.” 

“ What will you give me for it?” said poor Lotty, in de- 
spair. 

“ It ’ud be dear at a crown,” returned the man, striking a 
lucifer match on the wall, and proceeding coolly to light a 
short black ‘pipe. 

“ Say seven and sixpence,” said Lotty, entreatingly. 

“ Say a crown, and you’ve said all I can afford,” indiffer- 
ently retorted the man, puffing a cloud of bad tobacco smoke 
into his customer’s face. And Lotty was compelled to close 
the bargain on these very unsatisfactory terms. 

With the money of which she was already in possession add- 
ed to this, Lotty was able to purchase a third-class ticket to 
London — and from London she walked all the way down to 
Richmond, with many delays for rest, and what little refresh- 
ment in the way of oaten bread and mugs of milk she could 
afford to buy. But she never gave a thought to her own 
weariness — the one all-absorbing idea that filled her brain, 
and recurred over and over again to her mind, swallowed up 
all lesser cares. 

“ 1 never thought of this — 1 never thought of this,” she 
kept repeating to herself. “Oh, just Heaven! that the 
daughter should be about to wed her father’s murderer!” 

And when at last the towers of Carew Court came in sight, 
poor Lotty sunk, pale and giddy, oma grassy bank, where wild 
roses were already opening their delicate buds, and daisies 
gemmed' the ground at her feet, with a blur like blood before 
her eyes, and a sickening sensation binding her heart around 
as if with an iron band. 

“Am I dying?” she asked herself, in wild, unreasoning 
terror. “ Oh, no, no! God will never let me die until 1 
have warned Miss Kate of the dreadful doom before her! One 
more effort — only one more— and it will all be over!” 

And with a resolute will she struggled to her feet, and stag- 
gered, rather than walked, on under the rich green foliage of 
the boughs that hung over the walls of the Court grounds, a 
natural awning of shade and freshness. 

The great gate was garlanded with white flowers as she 
reached it; the man who was lounging in the door-way of the 
porter’s lodge wore a white satin favor pinned on the front of 
his coat. Lotty looked wildly about her, like one in a dream. 

“ Well, my gal,” said the man, rendered unusually com- 
placent with good ale and beef, “if so be as you’ve come to 
see the bride pass out, you’d better step lively.” 


m 


claire's love-life, 


“ What is going on up at the Court?” Lotty asked, with a 
motion of her head toward the archway of flowers. 

“ Don’t you know?” said the man. “ A wedding!” 

“ Not — Miss Carew’s!” gasped Lotty, clutching wildly at 
the coarse cotton handkerchief which was tied about her 
throat. • 

“ Miss Carew’s, of course. Whose else should it be?” add- 
ed the man. “ And with the heir of Wild Aspens, too. I 
don’t believe, though,” he added to himself, as he observed 
Lotty’s startled look, “ as she hears me. A bit luny, 1 
shouldn’t be surprised.” 

For the vVoman had hurried past him, forgetful of all the 
weariness and iatigue she had sustained. 

“ God send I may not be too late!” she uttered, half aloud, 
as she plodded up the broad, winding avenue, where the sun- 
shine lay in moving flecks of gold upon the velvet turf, and 
the shy deer started back into their glades at her approach. 
The apprehension of her husband’s vindictive anger, which 
had hitherto tormented her, was gone now; the dread of 
ulterior consequences had all faded out of her mind at last. 

“ I knew that the hour and the moment for me to speak 
were at hand,” she thought, “ but I never dreamed that they 
were so near! God give me strength to tell all, before it is 
too late! God keep my dear young mistress from the doom 
of a murderer’s wife!” 

And when at last she ■ reached the back entrance of the 
Court, she demanded eagerly of a servant: 

“ Is Miss Carew married yet?” 

“ Yes,” he answered; “ half an hour ago.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE MISSING BRIDE. 

The wedding-breakfast at Carew Court was over — the hot- 
house flowers were beginning to fade in the silver center-pieces 
— the champagne corks had ceased to pop like miniature 
artillery, and the guests were assembled in the great drawing- 
room, while the young bride, attended by Lady Huron and 
Lady Lydia Grafton, with the six lovely bride-maids in white 
tulle aud orange-blossoms, had gone to her own room to ex- 
change her bridal white for the traveling-dress of dark silk, in 
which she was to cross the channel on her wedding- trip. 

Lord Aspendale, who had given away the bride, was in the 
highest of spirits— so much so, indeed, that he even spoke 
graciously to Eustace, and condescended to pay an old-fash- 


CLAIRES LOtE-Lim 228 

ioned compliment or two to Eustace’s wife, the beautiful Lady 
Huron. Lady Lydia had walked up to him without the 
slightest hesitation, and, holding out her hand to him, had 
demanded : 

44 Isn’t this a great deal nicer than if yo.u had married him, 
nolens volens , to me , you stony-hearted old match-maker?” 

Lord Aspendale laughed good-humoredly as he bent to kiss 
Lady Lydia’s forehead with the chivalrous courtesy that be- 
longed to a past generation. 

“ I believe it is, my dear,” said he; 44 1 believe it is! 1 am 
beginning to comprehend, at last, that Providence orders these 
things for us better than we can order them ourselves!” 

Katherine Carew had never looked lovelier and more 
serenely beautiful than on this her wedding-day. Her face 
was the reflex of her heart — all sunshine — and as she folded 
the dark silk traveling- wrap around her slender shoulders, she 
turned with a smile to Miss Clissold, her first bride-maid. 

44 Give me my veil, Alice,” said she. 44 And now — is all 
ready?” 

Just then her maid fluttered in, and whispered in her ear: 

44 Miss Carew — oh, I beg pardon — Mrs. Aspendale, there’s 
a person out here waitin’ to see yei. ” 

44 A person, Elizabeth? What sort ora person?” 

44 A common-looking woman, miss — my lady — all covered 
with dust — and that shabby as "you can’t form no idea of, 
miss— my lady, I would say!” 

4 * But did you tell her I was just going away — that I could 
see no one?” 

44 Yes, my lady, I did — but she wouldn’t take 4 No ’ for an 
answer; and she says, says she, 4 Give this bit of paper to 
your mistress!’ And here it is, my lady!” 

In some surprise Katherine unfolded a slip of paper, torn 
from the edge of some newspaper, on which was penciled, in 
almost illegible characters, the words: 

44 For God’s sake. Miss Kate, let me speak with you just 
for one second! Lotty.” 

44 What is it, Kate?” eagerly questioned Lady Lydia Graf- 
ton. 

44 1 don’t know myself what it is,” said the newly made 
Mrs. Aspendale. 44 Tell her to come in here, Elizabeth — no, 
stay. Show her into the little blue room, and tell her I will 
come to her directly.” 

44 My dear Kate!” pleaded Miss Clissold, 44 when you have 
only just enough time to complete your toilet!” 


224 : CLAIRE *S LOVE-LIFE. 

“ Oh, my toilet is completed already,” said Katherine, with 
a light laugh, “ and this poor woman will not keep me a mo- 
ment. Stay here, girls,” with a smiling nod to the bride- 
maids; “ I will be back immediately.” 

White and wan, with tangled black hair about her face, and 
dress loaded with the dust of travel, Lotty Kenrick stood in the 
middle of the little blue boudoir, like a faded ghost of the 
past, as the bride entered, her fair, gold-tressed face framed 
in a delicate Parisian hat of brown straw, garlanded with rose- 
buds, and her seal-brown silk traveling-dress trailing softly 
over the carpet. 

“ What is it, Lotty?” Katherine asked, with sweet pity 
shining in her deep-blue eyes. “ Are you ill? Are you in 
want?” 

But Lotty paid no heed to the question. 

“ Miss Kate,” said she, the words coming hoarsely from her 
dry throat, “ X have that to tell you which you must hear!” 

“ What is it, Lotty?” A vague fear began to cross Mrs. 
Aspendale’s mind that the poor, pale creature’s mind had 
given way. “ Sit down —let me call for some wine for you to 
drink.” 

Lotty shuddered. * “ Not in this house,” gasped she. 
“ Tell me, Miss Kate, are you married to him — to Malcolm 
Aspendale?” 

“Yes; an hour ago. Good heavens! Lotty, why do you 
turn so ghastly pale?” 

“ God help you. Miss Kate,” cried out Lotty, raising her 
clasped hands high above her head, “ for you have married 
your father’s murderer!” 

Katherine clung to the window-ledge for support, as the 
words struck her like a blow. 

“Impossible!” she cried, incredulously. “Lotty Corey, 
do your know what you are saying?” 

“I saw it with my own eyes!” persisted Lotty. “ I heard 
the fatal pistol-shot! 1 saw him bend over your dead father’s 
prostrate form. But 1 dared not tell what I had seen, for 
there were those connected with that hideous night’s work that 
would have murdered me on the spot if I had so much as 
opened my lips. But think back for yourself. Miss Kate,” 
grasping at the arm of the young bride as she stood there 
trembling and ashy white. “ Remember how he avoided you 
— how he kept away from the funeral — as well he might, 
for the death- wound would have spouted blood if he had dared 
so much as to approach the poor coffined corpse. There was 
a deadly quarrel between them, Miss Kate— I overheard it— 


CLAlRE^S LOVE-LIFE. 225 

and your father turned Mr. Malcolm out-of-doors — and the 
next time I saw him he was standing over your father’s dead 
body.” 

Katherine Aspendale had sunk pale and gasping on a low 
chair, where the fresh wind, scented with roses and new-mown 
hay, lifted the ribbons of her hat, and fluttered them as with 
a caressing hand. 

“ Lotty,” cried she, “ are you quite sure? You have not 
dreamed this, or fancied it in the horrible lapses of some burn- 
ing fever?” 

“ Would to Heaven that I had!” wailed the girl, wringing 
her hands. “ Do I not tell you, Miss Kate, that 1 saw it with 
my own eyes?” 

Mrs. Aspendale started to her feet in a sort of desperation, 
as the hideous facts dawned on her mind in their full, unvar- 
nished horror. 

“ What shall 1 do?” she cried out. “ Shall I denounce 
him as a — murderer? Oh, my God, how can I db that, when 
he is — my husband? My husband! Lotty Corey, why did 
you ever let me marry him? If you must needs blight my 
future with such words as these, why were they not uttered 
before the fatal ceremony which has united us?” 

Lotty shrunk before the lightning of her young mistress’s 
eyes.' 

“ Heaven knows that I did my best!” she faltered. “ 1 
saw the notice of your impending marriage by chance-— by the 
merest chance in the world— and I have come hither without 
loss of time. 1 had only money enough to bring me to Lon- 
don— 1 have walked all the way down! Oh, Miss Kate, do 
not look so cruelly at me!” 

“ Poor child — poor girl!” The gentle compassion which was 
a part of Katherine Aspendale’ s nature softened her eyes and 
voice as she spoke. “ But I must not sit here,” she added. 
“ Give me your shawl. Let me have your dress and hat.” 

“Miss Kate!” 

“ 1 have no time to Jose! !No — not the dress — the cloak 
will be enough!” 

And, tearing the rosebud-garlanded hat from her golden 
braids of hair, the bride of an hour hurriedly looped up the 
long train of her dress, and enshrouded herself in Lotty’s 
faded serge cloak, wrapping its hood about her face. 

“ Come!” said she, in a voice so unlike her ordinary slow 
and gracious utterance that Lotty scarcely recognized it. 

" Whither?” 


2 U 


claire’s love-life. 


“ 1 don’t know—] don’t care! Anywhere from this place 
and from him !” 

And, side by side, the two women crept down the deserted 
back staircase, and out upon the lawn where the red glow of 
sunset turned the glittering cascade in the glen to a shower of 
diamonds, and lingered on the tree-trunks like bars of blood. 
As they crossed the wide avenue, the traveling carriage dashed 
around the curve — the carriage which had been ordered to 
take herself and her young husband to London on the first 
stage of their wedding journey. 

“ Look out you!” shouted the coachman, insolently. “ Do 
you want to be run over?” 

Lotty could feel Katherine tremble, as she hung on her 

arm. 

“ Through the woods, this way, Miss Kate,” she whispered. 
“ We shall reach the high-road — and it’s but a step from there 
to the station, if you’re going to London. ” 

“ Yes — to London!” eagerly answered the bride. “ To 
London!” 

“ She will certainly miss the train, if she lingers any 
longer!” cried Lady Lydia Grafton, impatiently. “Dear, 
soft-hearted Kate was always at the mercy of any smooth- 
tongued beggar who chose to relate to her a pitiful tale! Tell 
her we are waiting, Elizabeth! Tell her that there’s not a 
moment to lose; do you hear?” 

Elizabeth, the maid, hastened off accordingly — but in a 
minute or two she returned with a startled face. 

“ Please, my lady, she ain’t there!” 

“Not where?” asked Lady Lydia Grafton. 

“ Not in the blue boodewar, my lady.” 

“ But she must be there!” cried Lady Lydia, imperatively. 
“You are a goose, Elizabeth— these wedding festivities have 
turned your head! I’ll go myself !” 

The door of the blue boudoir stood ajar — Lady Lydia pushed 
it open and hurried in. 

“ Kate! Kate! Where are you, Kate?” she exclaimed, 
looking around — but only the echo of her own voice came back 
to her. The ferns and mignonette in the window fluttered 
softly in the breeze — a bird hanging above them warbled its 
shrill cantata, but the room was quite empty and deserted of 
any other presence. On the carpet lay a Valenciennes-bor- 
dered pocket-handkerchief, which Lady Lydia at once recog- 
nized as the bride’s— and close beside it a crumpled piece of 


claire's loye-liee. 


227 


paper, which she eagerly picked up, and read, in straggling 
pencil characters, the words: 

“ For God's sake, Miss Kate, let me speak with you just for 
one second. Lotty." 

“ What does it mean?" Lady Lydia asked herself, begin- 
ning to tremble all over. “ Has she been spirited away?" 

She rang the bell violently. 

“ Parkhurst," said she to the butler, “ tell them to look for 
Mrs. Aspendale at once. " 

“ To look where, my lady?" the old man demanded, with 
a scared face, for the tidings that something was wrong had 
already pervaded the servants' hall like a subtle atmosphere 
of doubt and dismay. Lady Lydia made a gesture of impa- 
tience. 

“How do 1 know?" cried she. “Somewhere — every- 
where! She must be in some place about the house or 
grounds. Lose no time, Parkhurst, and let the search be 
thorough and prompt." 

And hurrying back to the little knot of bride-maids, she 
looked them blankly in the face. 

“ She is gone," said Lady Lydia. “ Oh, girls, what shall 
we do?" And she burst into hysterical tears. 

“ But she can’t be gone," said Claire Huron. “ What 
should she go for — she, the happy wife of the man she loves 
better than all the world? It's a joke, or a masquerade, or 
something. She never can be gone!" 

“ What shall we do?" repeated Lady Lydia, wringing her 
hands. “ Who will tell him V 9 

Malcolm Aspendale was standing in the center of a group 
of gentlemen, when he felt a light touch on his arm; it was 
that of Lady Huron. 

“ Malcolm," said she, in a low tone, “ come here a minute; 
I want to speak to you. Sir Humphrey and Mr. Caddiscomb 
will excuse you, I am certain." 

“ Place aux dames. Of course," said Sir Humphrey, smil- 
ing as she drew the bridegroom away. 

“ Malcolm," said she, “ can you bear a great trouble?" 

He recoiled an instant, and looked intently in her face. 

“ Katherine is ill," said he, in a husky voice. “ Let me 
go to her at once." 

“ She is not ill," said Lady Huron; “ she has gone away." 

“ Gone — away /" he repeated, as if even now he hardly 
comprehended the meaning of the words; “ but gone 
whither?" 


228 CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 

“ We do not know,” said Claire. “ We have no trace to 
guide us. Malcolm, Malcolm! do not look so pale! Bear it 
like a man. It is some terrible mistake; it will be righted 
after a little, I am sure.’* 

“ A mistake — of course it is a mistake,” cried Aspendale, 
catching eagerly at the word. “ Why should she go away 
from me — her husband? Let us look for her at once.” 

“ We have looked,” began Claire, “ and — ” 

“ But you are not her husband,” said Malcolm Aspendale, 
putting her gently aside. “ Let me look. If she is above 
ground, I swear that I will find her!” 

The sun went down, reflected from the Court windows like 
bloody stains; one by one the guests dropped away, whisper- 
ing among themselves as they went, and casting scared glances 
behind; and still no bride was found. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

THE WIDOWED BRIDE. 

“ I can’t make it out at all,” said Eustace Aspendale* 
“ If she had been coaxed or threatened into the marriage — ” 

“ But she was not!” interrupted Claire. 

“ That’s just what I say!” cried her husband, impatiently. 
“ She loved the very ground he walked upon! I’ve seen her 
hang on his words as if he were an oracle — I’ve seen her eyes 
follow him all around the room as if there were nothing else 
in the world worth looking at! And to leave him thus, on the 
wedding-day — well, women are mysteries! That’s all I have 
to say about it!” 

Mr. Aspendale was leaning back in the hack-cab which was 
conveying himsell and his wife from the London terminus to 
their house in Park Lane, for, arriving as they did without 
notice, their own luxuriously appointed little carriage had not 
been sent to meet them. 

“ There’s no taint of hereditary insanity in the Carew 
family,” observed Lady Huron, thoughtfully, “ or I should 
almost be tempted to suppose — ” 

“ What you suppose, or what you don’t suppose, makes no 
difference!” broke in Eustace, roughly. “ But it’s too con- 
foundedly bad, just as we’ve got an heiress into the family, to 
have her cut and run like this! And now, if you can keep 
still long enough to let me read the paper, I shall be very 
much obliged to you.” 

Joseph, the butler of the little establishment in Park Lane, 
and its general master of ceremonies below-stairs, hurried out 


CLAIR F/S LOVE-LIFE. 


229 


at the sound of wheels to open the carriage door for his mas- 
ter and mistress. Eustace Aspendale, who seldom troubled 
himself with any superfluous politeness to servants, pushed 
past him, and went into his own little smoking-room on the 
left of the entrance. But as Lady Huron was following,' 
Joseph stopped her in the vestibule, a tiny marble-floored 
apartment, with gilt stands of flowers in the corners, and an 
alabaster statue of Hebe on a pedestal in the center. 

“ I beg your pardon, my lady,” said he (Joseph was one of 
those handsome, sad-eyed mulattoes who have the maimers of 
an expatriated prince), “ but perhaps I ought to mention to 
you that 1 took the liberty of sending a telegram down to 
Carew Court last night.” 

“A telegram, Joseph!” exclaimed Lady Huron. “No 
telegram has reached me!” 

“ No, my lady? Perhaps it mightn’t have arrived before 
you left .Richmond?” suggested Joseph. “ But it was so 
strange, my lady, that me and the housekeeper, we felt you 
ought to know.” 

Lady Huron sighed resignedly. 

“ Joseph,” said she, “ will you be so good as to tell me 
what you are talking about?” 

“ Miss Carew, my lady,” said Joseph, apologetically. 

“Miss — Carew!” Lady Huron stood staring at the man, 
while her lace parasol and cut-glass smelling-bottle crashed 
together on the marble floor. 

Joseph stooped instantly to recover them, and handed them 
back with an imperturbable bow. 

“Yes, my lady,” said he. “It was nigh upon ten o’clock 
last night when she came to the house, and walked right in 
as if she had been expected. And she was very pale, my lady, 
and didn’t seem rightly to comprehend when Mrs. Barbara 
spoke to her and asked if anything had happened.” 

“ Was she alone?” asked Lady Huron. 

“ There was a young person with her in the cab, my lady,” 
said Joseph. “ Leastways, Adolph thought she was young; 
but she didn’t get out. She drove away again.” 

“ Where is she now?” asked Lady Huron. “ I mean Miss 

Carew.” . , , ' 

“ In the drawing-room, my lady, sitting by the fire, and 
looking at the coals; just where she’s sat all night long— for 
Mrs. Barbara couldn’t persuade her to go to bed, do what she 
would. So we brought her a cup of tea there, my lady, and 
did our best to make her comfortable. Mrs. Barbara asked 
her should we send for ; you, and she said no. But we took 


230 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


the liberty to telegraph, my lady, seeing as she was so pale 
and acted so strange that we were afraid she might be wrong 
in her head.” 

Lady Huron waited to hear no more, but- ran up the low 
walnut staircase, and hurried at once into the drawing-room 
that opened from the landing. 

There, beside the rubied mass of glowing anthracite in the 
grate, sat poor Katherine Carewin a low satin reception-chair, 
her head drooping, her hands clasped on her knees. The 
golden braids of her hair had escaped from their fastening, 
and hung in lustrous masses on her shoulders — her face was 
white as the carved marble columns of the mantel, and there 
was a wild, startled look in her eyes that struck a sense of hor- 
ror through Claire’s every nerve. 

“Kate!” she said, approaching her unbidden guest with 
feigned composure— “ dear Kate!” 

Katherine looked up with a start. 

“ Is it you, Claire?” said she. “ Oh, I thought yon would 
never come!” 

Claire knelt on the rug in front of the fire, and put her 
arms caressingly around the slight, drooping figure. 

“ Kate,” said she, “ why have you come here?” 

“ Because I had nowhere else to go. You are my friend, 
Claire, are you not? You will not let him take me away?” 

“ Ho you mean Malcolm?” 

“Yes,” with a convulsive shudder at the sound of the 
name. 

“ He will never take you away from any place without your 
own consent, Kate,” soothed Claire. 

“ Do you think he will not?” cried Katherine, lifting her 
haggard eyes to Claire’s face with a pitiful intensity of eager- 
ness. “ But he is my husband— the law gives me to him, 
soul and body— forever— until death do us part! Oh, 1 wish, 

I wish I had never married him!” 

“ But why, dearest Kate?” pleaded Claire. “ 1 thought— 

1 was sure — that you loved him!” 

“ I do love him! I do love him!” wailed Katherine, sway- 
ing herself to and fro as if in mortal pain. “ That is the 
worst of it — that is what makes me feel like a guilty creature! 

1 can not help loving him, do what 1 will!” 

“ Then, dearest, why did you run away from Carew Court 
so strangely?” coaxed Claire. “ Tell me!” 

But Katherine wrenched herself out of her friend’s embrace 
with eyes of wild, mute terror. 

“How dare you cross-question me thus!” cried she. 


claire’s love-life. 


231 


“ How dare you try to wrest my secret from me! I will 
never, never tell it to living soul! Do you want to drive me 
away from this last haven of refuge?” 

“ My own darling,” Claire protested, “you icncno that 1 
would not!” 

“ Then don’t question me,” said Katherine, letting her 
head droop wearily again. “ Leave me to my misery.” 

“ You will come upstairs, Kate?” 

“ What for?” 

“ To lie down, dear. To let Julie brush out your hair, and 
cool your lips and forehead with ice water. For they bum 
like fire, although you are so pale,” urged Claire. “ Come, 
dearest, with me!” 

And, apparently more to avoid an argument than from any 
active wish, Katherine rose languidly and accompanied her 
friend upstairs,- where she made no objection to ^Julie’s chang- 
ing her dress for a loose cambric wrapper with fluted ruffles 
and loops of blue ribbon, bathing her face and hands, and 
brushing her hair out of its braids into a cascade of crimped 
gold down her back. And Claire with her own hands brought 
her a cup of tea, into which she had infused a goodly quantity 
of red lavender and valerian. Katherine drank it without a 
word, but as she gave back the transparent china cup into 
her friend’s hand, she said, with a smile: 

“ You think you are deceiving me, Claire, but you are not. 
You have given me a strong opiate in that harmless-looking 
cup of tea. But I care not; I only wish you would give me 
some blessed draught that would make me sleep forever!” 

And so she turned her face away and closed her eyes with a 
long, weary sigh, while Claire whispered to Julie to remain 
until her friend slept, and went softly down-stairs to tell her 
husband all that had occurred. 

Eustace gave a long, low whistle as he listened. 

“Very strange that she should. have come here, of all 
places in the world,” said he. “ However, it’s a deuced lucky 
thing for us, and only tightens our hold on the other branch 
of the Aspendale family. I shouldn’t wonder, Claire, if, 
after all, we should turn up on the winning side of the post.” 

“ But you will telegraph to Malcolm at once?” 

“ Oh, of course — before she forbids it.” 

lie caught up his hat and left the house immediately, while 
Claire sat down to try and think out' some clew to this strange 
rtfystery. 

“ It can not be,” she pondered, that Kate has discovered 
some mystery of Malcolm’s past life which will not bear in- 


232 CLAIRE'S LOVE-LIEE. 

vestigation — that this ‘ Lotty,' whoever she may be, has a 
claim upon him of any nature. I had always believed my 
husband's brother, like Shakespeare's Ophelia, to be ‘ chaste 
as ice, pure as snow ' — but who can speak positively of any 
man in these days? And if not that, what is the envenomed 
sting that has gone so deeply into poor Kate's heart?" 

The day passed on — the usual crowd of guests came and 
went. Lady Huron, after creeping noiselessly upstairs, and 
making sure that Katherine was still asleep, whispered a 
direction or two to Julie, and went out for her daily drive in 
the Lady's Mile. When she came down, in blue moire 
and black Chantilly lace, to dinner, her surprise was great at 
seeing Katherine, who, in one of her own black silk dresses, 
and a jet comb in her golden hair, was sitting before the lire. 

“Kate!" 

“Yes," said Mrs. Aspendale; “ 1 have ventured to borrow 
your dress, Claire, until I can send for some of my own. The 
long sleep I have had has made me feel like a new creat- 
ure." 

Claire went up to her and kissed her affectionately. 

“ Dear Kate, I am so glad," said she. “ And you will tell 
me all about it, now. " 

Mrs. Aspendale turned away, and walked up and down the 
length of the room once or twice. Then she came back and 
took Claire's hand in hers. 

“ Yes, Claire," said she; “ 1 will tell you all that- I can 
ever tell any one: I have left my husband!" 

“ For a little while?" 

“ Forever. But I have good reason. 1 have acted from no 
momentary whim or sudden gust of passion. 1 am Malcolm's 
wife — but in name only. Nothing will ever persuade me to 
give myself up into his keeping. Now, Claire, 1 have told 
you all. Never ask me concerning this terrible mystery 
again. Henceforward, let the subject be as a sealed book 
between us. I may have seemed strange and incoherent this 
morning, but 1 am in the full possession of my senses now. 
You understand me?" 

“ Yes!" Claire answered. “ And here comes Eustace." 

The bride advanced to greet her friend's husband with the 
calm self-possession of an empress. Eustace Aspendale him- 
self was quite equal to the emergency. 

“ I am flattered, Mrs. Aspendale," said he, “ that you have 
considered my house as .your own in this unlooked-for 
exigency." 

“ Kate wishes the subject of her flight from Carew Court 


claire’s loye-life. 233 

to remain unmentioned between us, Eustace,” Claire made 
haste to interpose. 

“ Does she?” Eustace bowed over Katherine’s cold hand 
with the softest and most conciliatory manner. “ So let it 
be, then. Mrs. Aspendale must rest assured that in this, as 
in all other things, her will is our law. But will you forgive 
me,” looking down into Katherine’s eyes, “ if I tell you that 
I have already telegraphed your husband that you are here?” 

“ It can make no permanent difference,” said Katherine, 
sinking back into her seat. “I suppose I shall have to see 
him personally at least once before I can make him. under- 
stand our future position toward each other.” 

But they were still lingering over strawberries and tutti 
frutti creams at dessert when Joseph announced: 

“ Mr. Aspendale in the drawing-room to see Mrs. Aspen- 
dale.” 

Claire looked curiously at her friend. Katherine rose, pale 
and queenly. 

“ Are you going to him, dear?” asked Lady Huron. 
“ Shall I accompany you?” 

But Katherine negatived this proposal. 

“ 1 would rather be alone,” said she. I will return to 
you presently, Claire.” 

Malcolm Aspendale was walking up and down the room 
with fevered impatience as she entered it; he held out his 
arms with glad welcome. 

“ My darling Kate,” he exclaimed, “ if you only knew 
what 1 have suffered!” 

But she motioned him back, and drawing the glittering wed- 
ding-ring from her finger, flung it on the floor at his feet. 

“ Kate!” 

“Mr. Aspendale.” 

“ Read me this strange riddle,” said he, with a forced smile. 
“ Explain yourself — for, as Heaven is my witness, 1 can not 
account for your conduct!” 

“ I havd no explanation to make,” she said, icily. 

His royally handsome brow clouded over; he drew himself 
haughtily up. “ Katherine,” said he, “ 1 will not allow my- 
self to be made a plaything of in this manner by any woman 
alive. Why did you leave me before our marriage was an hour 
old?” 

“ Since you ask me, I will answer!” she responded, still 
standing like a pale, beautiful statue in the middle of the 
floor. “ Recall to your memory the incidents that transpired 
at Carew Court on the night of my father’s death! And then 


234 claire’s love-life. 

ask me, if you dare, why I refuse to live with you as your 
wedded wife!” 

Involuntarily, Malcolm Aspendale recoiled from her burning 
eyes and scornful glance. The only inference that he could 
draw from her words was, that she had in some manner be- 
come acquainted, at this eleventh hour, with Eustace’s guilty 
complicity in the burglary at Carew Court; and that he, as 
Eustace’s brother, had incurred her deep resentment. 

“ Katherine,” said he, “ what is it that you mean?” 

“ You know well what I mean!” she retorted. “ I see it 
in your face — I read it in your eyes! Kay, you need not 
tremble with craven fear! your guilty secret is safe with me. 
But you might have known that God’s eternal justice would 
never let you become the husband of Miles Carew’s daughter!” 

He stood looking at her, as white and stately as herself. 

“ If this is really so, Kate,” said he, “ why, of all places 
in the world, have you taken refuge in my brother Eustace’s 
house?” 

“ Your brother Eustace is nothing to me,” she answered, 
disdainfully. “1 am with my friend Lady Huron! No!” 
lifting up her hand as he essayed to speak, “ you need attempt 
no explanations — I will not listen! All 1 have to ask — to im- 
plore of you — is that you will leave me forever.” 

“ Your wish shall be granted,” he answered. “ But, Kate, 
dearly as I have loved you — dearly as 1 love you still — 1 can 
not endure this cruel insult without a protest. I am a man, 
and I have my share of a man’s pride and dignity. If I leave 
you now — ” 

“If!” broke in Katherine, haughtily. 

“ If I leave you now,” he resumed, looking sternly down 
upon her from his towering height, “it is with the express 
understanding that 1 never shall assume the relations of a 
husband toward the woman I h^ve married, unless she herself 
comes to me and implores me to forget and forgive the past! 
Do you fully comprehend my meaning?” 

“ You are quite safe in your stipulation,” she said, with a 
scornful laugh. “ Oh, yes, I comprehend you!” 

“ Then, adieu!” 

He held out his hand, with a look of infinite yearning in his 
eyes, but she never stirred from her place. 

“ Adieu,” she answered, coldly — and the next moment she 
was alone. 

Lady Huron was still toying with her little gold coffee- 
spoon, and sprinkling sugar on her giant strawberries, when 
Katherine came back, very pale, but quite composed. 


CLAIRE^S LOVE-LIFE. 


235 


44 Well!” cried she, eagerly, “ has he gone?” 

“ He has'gone.” 

“ And when is he coming back?” 

“Never!” 

Lady Huron drew a long breath. 

“ He has accepted his destiny, then?” 

“ He has accepted it. And now, Claire, remember our 
compact. Let the dead past bury its dead — the present and 
the future are all that remain to us now.” 

But as Katherine resumed her seat in the shadow of a slen- 
der-necked Bohemian glass of fragrant red roses, Claire’s eyes 
fell upon her hand. 

44 Kate!” cried she, “ where is your wedding-ring?” 

“ I have taken it off,” said Katherine, quietly. “ I have 
thrown it away!” 

“ In Heaven’s name, why?” 

“1 am no wife,” she answered, with a cold, glittering 
laugh. 4 4 1 have no longer a husband. Why should I have 
upon my finger the mocking symbol of a tie that exists no 
longer? And now let us talk of something else.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

MRS. MALCOLM ASPENDALE IS VICTIMIZED. 

44 The best thing that could possibly have happened to us,” 
said Eustace Aspendale. 44 Upon my word, I can’t say that 
I’m sorry for it!” 

44 Oh, Eustace!” cried out his wife. 

44 Well, what of it? Would you have me turn canting 
hypocrite, and pretend that I’m quite unreconciled to an 
event that lifts me out,of the slough of debt and puts an un- 
limited quantity of ready money in my hands? For since my 
brother’s wife resolves to stay here, and insists— very proper- 
ly, as it seems to me— on halving our expenses, I don’t see but 
that I can draw on the Carew Banking Company to suit my- 
self!” . . ' , 

44 Eustace,” said his wife, hurriedly coming to his side, and 
laying her hand on his arm, as he sat with the morning paper 
in his lap, 44 you don’t mean that? Because Kate has taken 
refuge with us in the time of her distress, you never would 
take advantage of it?” 

44 My dear,” remarked Eustace, with a sardonic smile, 
44 you are a greater fool that I thought!” 

44 Forgive me,” pleaded Lady Huron, with a long breath of 
relief. 44 1— I might have known—” 


236 claire*s love-lifE. 

“ The world takes advantage of me,” said Mr. Aspendale. 
“ Why should I spare my hand when I get the chance to be 
even with the world? It’s an excellent arrangement, my love, 
and shows Mrs., Malcolm Aspendale ’s good taste and judg- 
ment. ” 

Claire said no more, but stood moodily looking out of the 
window, with a dull ache at her heart. She was not over- 
scrupulous herself, but Eustace’s utter disregard of all that 
pertained to honor or chivalry struck her like a blow. She 
had worshiped iier handsome, heartless divinity with a fond 
faith which elevated him on a pedestal far above the level of 
common humanity; she worshiped him still, although she was 
gradually awakeniDg to the fact that her- idol was but of com- 
mon clay. 

She had urged Katherine Aspendale to remain her guest; 
and Katherine, who cared little how or where the blighted 
remnant of her life' should be passed, had languidly assented. 

“ Why should 1 not stay with you?” she had answered. 
“You are kind to me; you will not torture me with unmean- 
ing questions. Yes, I will stay; but not as a guest. The only 
condition on which 1 will remain here is that 1 may be allowed 
to contribute one half of the household expenses . y> 

“ Dear Kate,” cried Claire, “ I never thought of that!” 

“ No, 1 know you did not; but 1 think of it. Do you con- 
sent?” 

“ If you will not stay with me on any other terms, dear 
Kate.” 

And, to judge by the weekly bills sent in for Mrs. Malcolm 
Aspendale’s inspection, the expenses of the little house in 
Park Lane must have been something prodigious. A ducal 
household could scarcely have spent more money, with less to 
show for it; and although Katherine could not comprehend 
how the family expenses could mount up so unaccountably, 
she concluded that Lady Huron was not what is called a good 
manager, and thought, pityingly, that the Park Lane serv- 
ants were not so reliable as those at Carew Court. 

A pair of high-stepping saddle-horses were added to 
the establishment, although Claire cared but little for 
equestrian exercise, and Katherine never rode. The house 
was refurnished in antique Pompeian style by M. Martilade, 
whose prices were something to wonder at, and who always 
warned his patrons beforehand that if expense was to be any 
object, they had better not intrust their work to his hands. 

The little coupe was deposed in favor of a* superb open 
barouche for fine weather and a clarence for rainy days. 


CLAIRE *S LOVE-LIEE. 


Eustace gave his wife a set of diamonds that made her open 
her eyes in glad surprise, and the establishment was thrown 
recklessly open for the almost endless entertainment of a 
whirl of gay guests. Florists grew rich in the neighborhood; 
confectioners smiled beamingly as the orders came in, and 
Lady Huron charged whatever little items of dress she needed 
to Mrs. Malcolm Aspendale’s account, with the firmest faith 
that things would be all right. 

In the meanwhile, the tongue of gossip was by no means 
silent on the subject of Katherine Carew’s wedding during the 
season of nine-days'’wonder that ensued. Dowagers smiled 
and whispered maliciously behind their fans; young girls stared 
whenever the husbandless wife made her appearance either in 
the fashionable assembly or in the park. Some hiuted that 
Malcolm Aspendale had a wife and four children living in St. 
John's Wood, the untimely discovery of which fact had 
estranged the newly marrried pair in the first hour of their 
honey-moon; others spoke enigmatically of some hidden lover 
of Katherine Carew's, who had appeared on the scene at the 
last moment. Some whispered insanity; others asserted that 
money matters were at the root of the difficulty; but no one 
dared openly to mention the subject either to Mr. Aspendale 
or his wife, both of whom went on their separate ways in 
silence. Once or twice they chanced to meet in crowded ball- 
rooms, in the height of the London season, but it was as cold, 
courteous strangers might have encountered each other, and 
the eager spectators obtained no satisfaction from witnessing 
the interview. But, even though she made no outward sign, 
all these things stung Katherine's sensitive nature to the quick. 

Moreover, she was becoming dissatisfied with her surround- 
ings in Park Lane. She could not but perceive that Claire's 
associates, brilliant and showy though they were, belonged to 
a different circle from those with whom she had been ac- 
customed to mingle — she could not comprehend the meaning 
of the gentlemen guests who gathered in Eustace's drawing- 
room in the small hours of the morning, when the ordinary 
companies were broken up, and the ladies had gone to their 
own rooms. 

“ Eustace keeps very late hours, Claire, does he not?" she 
asked one day. And Claire, coloring deeply, had responded: 

“ Oh, he always did, you know!" 

But one morning, when the bills had been sent in as usual 
for Mrs. Aspendale’s approval, she took them in her hand 
and went to Claire's dressing-room, where that young lady was 
dressing for a flower-show, whither she had promised to ac- 


238 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


company Lady Juliet Vane, a beautiful divorcee who was 
clinging desperately to the outskirts of London society. 

“ Claire,” said she, “ can you spare a minute or two?”. 

“An hour, if you please,” said Lady Huron. “Julie,” 
to the maid, “ go down-stairs and see if the roses have come 
from Covent Garden. And if they have, arrange them in 
the drawing-room vases. Now, Kate, I am quite at your 
service.” 

“ I don’t understand these bills,” said Katherine, seating 
herself, with knitted brows. 

“ Don’t you?” said Claire, plaintively. “ I am sure they 
are explicit enough.” 

“ Five hundred pounds for that last soiree!” 

“ Oh, you know, we had Mademoiselle Zarinka to sing, dear, 
and she never will open her lips under fifty guineas,” ex- 
plained Claire, visibly embarrassed; “and Eustace would 
order the supper from the Maison Parisienne, although I told 
him that Gunther’s would be cheaper — and the California ferns 
and plants that we had were perfectly ruinous! I don’t see 
what has come to you of late, Kate,” she added, querulously. 
“ You never used to be so stingy!” 

“ We will not discuss that now,” said Katherine, gently. 
“Here is a bill from Madame Elisette — three hundred 
pounds — for articles which I am quite sure I never ordered.” 

“ Oh, I can easily explain that!” laughed Lady Huron. 
“ The lace dress, you know, for Mrs. Payne-Montague’s party, 
and an ideal costume— Diana, the huntress — for Lady Per- 
cival Wynworth’s fancy ball, and a dinner-dress or two that 
1 really couldn’t do without. Elisette is shockingly extrava- 
gant, I know, but then she does turn out such exquisite 
dresses! And really, Kate, that is only a temporary loan, 
you know; I shall repay it at once, when Eustace can get the 
money for me.” 

“Yes,” said Katherine, absently, her eyes still fixed upon 
the perplexing accounts; “but here is the check I gave you 
for the musicians’ bill— -the blank check which 1 signed for 
you to fill out as soon as you got the exact amount. You 
were sure it would not be more than twenty pounds at the 
uttermost.” 

“ Nineteen pounds and eleven shillings!” said. Claire. “ I 
gave the check to Eustace, and he said—-” 

“ But it has been filled out for two hundred pounds, and 
duly presented and cashed!” 

Claire uttered an unguarded exclamation of dismay as she 
took the little slip of gray paper into her hand. 


claire’s loye-life. 


239 


11 Two hundred pounds !” she cried out. “ It can’t be pos- 
sible that Eustace — ” 

But she paused abruptly on seeing the figures written out 
in her husband’s bold hand. 

“It must be a mistake!” said she. “Let me call Eus- 
tace.” 

She opened the door of the adjoining room. 

“Julie,” said she to the maid, who, on discovering that 
the roses had not yet been sent from the Oovent Garden 
florist’s, had seated herself at her needle-work by the window, 
“ tell Mr. Aspendale that I wish to speak with him at once.” 

Eustace promptly appeared, smiling and debonair as he 
always was in the presence of his brother’s wife. 

“Jpeally, my dear Mrs. Aspendale,” said he, “you are a 
capital woman of business. I really didn’t suppose you would 
see that unlucky bit of paper before I had time to set it right 
at the bank. 1 expect a large remittance to-morrow, but 1 
needed money terribly just then, so I took the liberty — 
between relations, you know ” — with a conciliatory smile — 
“ to borrow the money temporarily. It will be made all right 
to-morrow, 1 assure you.” 

Katherine was silent; if she had trusted herself to speak, 
she might have said more than she judged expedient. Claire 
stood by with burning cheeks and downcast eyes. She had 
scarcely given a thought to her own dishonesty — yes, that was 
the word — In ordering dresses from Katherine’s modiste, and 
charging their price to Katherine’s account; but she saw the 
transaction in its genuine light when it was thus speedily sup- 
plemented by Eustace’s bold piracy upon the funds of his 
brother’s wife. 

“ Let it pass,” said Katherine, quietly. “ But for the fut- 
ure things must be ordered differently. And this is perhaps 
as good an opportunity as any to tell you of the plans I have 
formed for the future.” 

“ 1 shall be very much interested in hearing them, I am 
sure,” said Eustace Aspendale, blandly. 

“ Lady Littleton and Lady Lydia Grafton are going to the 
Continent next week, to spend the rest of the summer in 
travel,” said Katherine. “ They have urgently pressed me 
^to join their party, and I have decided to do so.” 

“ And leave us !” said Eustace, reproachfully. 

“ Lydia Grafton never did like me/’ cried Claire, dissolv- 
ing into tears of angry mortification, “ and I am sure she has 
poisoned your mind against me, Kate!” 

“ You are mistaken, Claire,” said Katherine, with gentle 


240 


claire's love-life. 


firmness. “Lady Lydia has never uttered a word behind 
your back which she would hesitate to speak before your face. 
But I have been considering this plan for some time, and I 
itave at last concluded that it is the wisest step for me to 
take." . . 

Eustace stood angrily gnawing his lip, and pulling at his 
dark mustache. 

“ You have certainly studied one side of the question well, 
Mrs. Aspendale," said he; “ but there still remains another. 
Do you forget all the expenses to which we have been in re- 
modeling our establishment to make it worthy of you, in our 
partial e} 7 es? Do you forget the saddle-horses which—" 

“ I am greatly obliged for your kindness," said Katherine, 
with a scarcely perceptible smile; “ but I never asked for 
these expenditures, and I think you fully understood that my 
residence here was no permanent arrangement, but merely 
depended on my own wishes. As for the saddle-horses, I do 
not ride, and 1 have never used them." 

“ They were ordered with a special view to your conven- 
ience, however," persisted Eustace. 

“ And paid for by my checks!" Katherine retorted, with a 
straightening of her slender figure. 

“ But here they are, too high-priced to be easily disposed 
of," pursued Eustace, “ and eating their heads off at a livery 
stable. " 

“Do you wish me to buy them of you a second time?" 
asked Katherine, scornfully. “ Because, Mr. Aspendale, I 
want you to understand that 1 shall do nothing of the sort." 

Eustace Aspendale, although his anger was at a white heat, 
had sufficient common sense left to perceive that he should 
gain nothing by further recrimination. He bowed punctili- 
ously. 

“ We will discuss the matter no further," said he. “ Of 
course I deeply regret your decision, Mrs. Aspendale, but 1 
can not hope to alter it." 

And he went back to his smoking-room musing rather dis- 
consolately on the time-honored fable of the Goose and the 
Golden Eggs. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE DEN OF THE OLD ALCHEMIST. 

“ So she has really gone," said Eustace Aspendale, who had 
just come in from a gallop in the park on one of the high- 
stepping horses which poor Katherine’s money had paid for. 


claire's loye-liee. ' 241 

and now stood, booted and spurred, before the drawing-room 
fire. 

The Purple Pansy was in one of Mme. Elisette's most en- 
chanting toilets, her red-gold hair fastened back with a cir- 
cular clasp of violet-hearted amethysts, her hands loaded with 
rings. It had been one of her most brilliantly attended re- 
ception-days — yet through it all her heart was chill and heavy 
within her, since Katherine Aspendale's carriage had rolled 
away from her dooi\ 

“ Yes," said the Purple Pansy, “ she has gone! Oh, Eus- 
tace, 1 wish you hadn't treated her so badly!" 

“ Badly, child!" echoed Eustace Aspendale. “ Why, 1 was 
a perfect Chevalier Bayard toward her, sans pour et sans 
reproche /" 

“ About money matters, I mean." 

“Oh — about money matters!" with a shrug of the shoul- 
ders. “ But it strikes me, my love, that you went it pretty 
strong as well." 

“ But I was never dishonest!" flashed out Claire. 

“ You are complimentary," said Eustace. “ Never let me 
hear you use that term again. Lady Huron, unless you want 
me to do what we should "both be sorry for afterward. If a 
man called me by that ugly word, I would knock him down. 
If a woman dares to use it, I am not certain but that 1 should 
be tempted to do the same thing!" 

Instinctively, Claire recoiled from the red light of anger that 
blazed in her husband's eyes. She feared him at that mo- 
ment — and she had reason. ^ , 

“ When does she start?" he asked, moodily, after a short 
interval of silence. 

■“ To-morrow, in the six-o'clock steamer from Dover." 

“ Shall you see her off?" 

“ She did not ask me to," faltered Claire. 

“ Nevertheless, I think it would be a very proper attention 
on your part, mv love," said Eustace, with the sinister smile 
which his wife had learned to dread worse than any frown. 
“ We'll go down to Dover together, my dear, and bid our 
brother's wife good speed. " 

“ If you think best, Eustace," said Claire, submissively. 
“ Where are you going now?" 

“ 1 have business in the city. 

“ But dinner is ordered for seven." 

“ Let dinner wait, or eat it by yourself if you choose. I 
shall not be tied down to any idiotic hours!" 

lie went up to. his room, exchanged his riding costume for 


24:2 


claire’s loye-life. 


the ordinary dress of a gentleman of the nineteenth century, 
and issuing out into the lighted streets, hailed a cab at the 
nearest corner. Leaving it m; the end of half an hour’s east- 
ward ride, he took still another, and told the driver to stop at 
Eastchurch Street, a dismal little thoroughfare not far from 
the vicinity known as the Seven Dials. At Eastchurch Street 
he paid the man and dismissed him, and then plunged into a 
wilderness of courts and lanes which, to a less practiced eye, 
would have seemed a hopeless labyrinth. «At length he paused 
before a window, through whose dusty jDanes a few stuffed birds 
and a withered specimen of the genus monkey could be dim- 
ly descried. Opening the door, which set a cracked little bell 
to ringing madly, he stumbled down two or three steps into a 
moldy-smelling shop, where there were other triumphs of the 
taxidermist’s skill arranged on shelves, and an old wom- 
an on a high stool behind the counter was engaged in skinning 
a dead canary with slender ribs, as if she purposed shortly to 
roast it before a slow fire. 

“ Eh?” said the old woman, in a low, subdued voice pecul- 
iar to deaf people, as she looked up, with one hand behind her 
ear. 

“ 1 want to see Doctor Donatello,” said Aspendale, dis- 
tinctly. 

“ Eb?” said the little old woman again. 

“ Doctor Don — a — tel — lo!” roared Eustace, leaning across 
the counter so that his lips nearly touched the old dame’s ear. 

“ Oh!” said the little old woman. “ Ah! Dear, dear, how 
your breath does tickle one! Yes. He’s in. That way,” 
with a gesture of her unoccupied hand toward a door at the 
end of the shop. 

Obeying these directions, Eustace found himself in a small, 
stuffy-smelling room, lined on all four sides with narrow 
shelves, which were crowded with jars, vials, and bottles. 
Sultry as was the evening, a fire burned redly in the rusty 
grate, and an old man in a tawdry scarlet dressing-gown, and 
a velvet cap of the same color pulled down to his very eye- 
brows, was busily occupied at a table, turning over the leaves 
of a big folio volume, for which there was scarcely room 
among the retorts, crucibles, spirit lamps, and coils of glit- 
tering glass that had been pushed aside for its accommodation. 
The old man looked up with near-sighted, expressionless eyes 
as the door clanged to. 

“ Doctor Donatello?” said Eustace Aspendale. 

“ The same, sir, at your service,” said the old man, with a 
low bow. 


CLAIRE’S LOVE-LIFE. 243 

44 1 am told that you are skilled in the preparation of fancy 
inks,” said Aspendale. 

The old man nodded, with the curious shadow of a smile 
lingering around the fine wrinkles of his mouth and chin. 

‘“I have met with some humble success in that line, sir,” 
said he. 

“ I wish to purchase a bottle.” 

44 With the greatest of pleasure, sir. What sort do you de- 
sire?” asked the little man. 

“ I am told,” pursued Eustace, advancing close to the old 
man’s chair, and lowering his voice almost to a whisper, “ that 
you prepare a variety which retains its color and brilliancy 
for twenty-four hours, and then fades entirely. ” 

The old alchemist nodded, and pressed his lips slyly to- 
gether. 

44 What is the price of a bottle?” 

44 There is not money enough in the country to buy a bot- 
tle,” said Dr. Donatello, with a compound foreign gesture of 
the eyes, brows, and shoulders. 44 It is a rare drug, and a 
costly. We sell it, sir, only by the dozen drops.” 

44 And your price for so much, is — ” 

44 Ten pounds.” 

Eustace stepped backward in dismay. 

44 You are exorbitant,” said he. 44 Ten pounds? For ink 
enough to write a line or so!” 

44 It is expensive,” admitted the alchemist, with a curious 
wriggling motion of his body. 44 But only consider, sir, how 
convergent!” 

Eustace Aspendale mused deeply for a few seconds. 

44 Give me the dozen drops,” said he, 44 and be quick about 
it.” 

The old man nodded his head, and, unlocking one of the 
drawers of the table at which he had been sitting, drew out ah 
oddly shaped crystal bottle with a silver stopper. From this 
he dropped into a little vial, not unlike that used for homeo- 
pathic pellets, twelve sparkling globules of dark liquid. 

44 Is that it?” asked Eustace, looking with utmost rever- 
ence at the fluid. 

44 That is it,” nodded the old man. 44 It will be quite faint 
at first, and then it will deepen, and at the end of twenty-four 
hours it will become quite invisible again— a good medium to 
write love letters and vows of eternal constancy with, ha! ha! 
ha! Thanks, sir,” as Eustace handed him a ten-pound note. 
44 1 think you will find it all that you desire.” 

Lady Huron had not yet rung for dinner when her hus- 


claire’s love-life. 


m 

band came back in light spirits. They entertained a select 
musical party in the evening, and Claire looked in surprise at 
her husband, who had been so unruly and distrait of late. 
For Eustace Aspendale shone that night with gracious air, 
sparkling repartee, and polished hospitality, as Claire never 
yet had seen him shine! 

Katherine Aspendale was standing on the deck of the Dover 
steamer, wrapped in a water-proof circular of Scotch plaid, 
her golden hair obscured behind the folds of a dark-blue veil, 
with Lady Lydia Grafton standing beside her; and the Count- 
ess of Littleton, comfortably established on a low steamer-chair 
close to the guards, while the two maids, carrying shawls, 
novels, smelling-bottles, and traveling-bags, were whispering 
at a little distance. Katherine was very sad and silent; to her, 
this leaving behind of the fair English shores upon which she 
had known such peace and such happiness, was like a rending 
away of the very tendons of life itself. 

“ Look, Kate!” cried Lady Lydia, suddenly, “ is not there 
your brother-in-law and his wife? They are crossing* the gang- 
plank — they are coming on board! It can’t be possible that 
they have determined, at this late hour, to follow you wher- 
ever you go?” 

“You must be mistaken, Lydia,” said Mrs. Aspendale, 
who had not been quick enough to catch sight of the familiar 
figures. 

“But 1 wasn’t mistaken!” vehemently asserted Lady 
Lydia. “ I saw them as plainly as I see you! And here they 
are now, coming on deck!” 

In another moment. Lady Huron had clasped Katherine in 
her arms, and was weeping genuine tears upon her shoulder. 

“ Oh, Kate! dearest Kate!” she sobbed, “ I could not let 
■you go without one more word of farewell.” 

“ You must excuse this impulsive little wife of mine, Mrs. 
Aspendale,” said Eustace, with a comprehensive bow to all 
the assembled group. “ She would come; and I, too, have a 
last favor to ask of you, Mrs. Aspendale*” 

Involuntarily Katherine shrunk back. 

“ And 1 give you my word of honor as a gentleman,” said 
Eustace, “ that it shall be the very last. Will you lend me 
five hundred pounds?” 

He spoke in a low, earnest tone now, having drawn his sis- 
ter-in-law to one side. 

“ See,” said he, hurriedly, “ I have brought the check, all 
ready filled out, for you to sign. There are always pen and 
ink to be had in the saloon. For Claire’s sake— for the sake 


OLAIRE’s LOVE-LIED, 


245 


of the kindness you have received from her at your sorest 
need, do not refuse this last parting favor. It is for her that 
J. asR it, not myself. / am a man, and can endure the obloquy 
of the world; but for her to be insulted by grinding credit- 
ors — ” 

He checked himself, as if unable to proceed. Katherine 
glanced irresolutely at the check; she felt that she was once 
more being made the prey of a smooth-tongued sharper, but 
her heart was softened toward Claire, and, after all, what was 
five hundred pounds? Would it not -be a cheap ransom, in- 
deed, if, as Eustace so confidently stated, it was to be the last? 

And all the while his eager eyes were reading the quick suc- 
cession of her thoughts, as if her face were a written volume, 
and an expression of subdued triumph gathered under his 
dark lashes as he did so. 

“ Yes,” said she, slowly, “ I will sign it.” 

“ How can I ever thank you sufficiently for this noble gen- 
erosity?” cried Eustace, fluentty. “ Let me give you my arm 
down the companion-way — the stairs are dark and slippery.” 

At a whispered word from him, accompanied by the chink 
of silver coin, a waiter brought -pen and ink, and a wooden 
box of sand, upon a japanned tray, and, stooping over the 
cabin table, Katherine drew off one glove, and wrote her sig- 
nature to the check for five hundred pounds, payable to the 
order of Eustace Aspendale. 

“ Remember,” she said, as she gave him the oblong strip 
of paper, “ it must be the last /” 

“ It shall be,” he answered, in a low tone. 

At that moment the cry of “All ashore!” was sounded, 
and before Claire could comprehend the mystery which seemed 
to surround her visit to the crowded little steamer, she was 
standing on the quay, waving her handkerchief to the party 
of English tourists, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her 
radiant hair fluttering in the sea-breeze. 

“ Eustace,” she said, suddenly turning to her husband, 
“ what were you saying to Kate down-stairs? Why did you 
not take me down too?” 

“ Possibly because 1 did not want you,” he retorted, with 
a sneer. 

“ Eustace, you have now been— borrowing money of her 
again!” cried Claire, turning suddenly on him. 

By way of answer, he held up the check before her eyes. 

“ Eustace!” - 

There was pain, and shame, and bitter resentment in her 
tones, but he only laughed. 


246 Claire’s love-lire. 

“ We shall lose the train back to London if you treat me 
to any more of your dramatic airs and graces/’ said he. 
“ Come.’’ 

And she knew by the sharp ring of his voice that he was not 
to be trifled with. 

As soon as the portals of the Carew banking house were 
opened the next morning, Mr. Eustace Aspendale presented a 
check for five thousand pounds, made payable to his order, 
and signed by Katherine Aspendale. Dr. Donatello’s water 
drops of ink had accomplished their mission, and faded into 
dull whiteness, indistinguishable from the rest of the paper, 
and Mrs. Aspendale’s signature, written in jet black char- 
acters, alone remained. Eustace had filled up the blank check 
for five thousand pounds, and now presented it for payment, 
with the coolest self-possession imaginable. 

The cashier, a spectacled old man, who had been connected 
with the banking-house from its very inception, and knew the 
handwriting of his patron’s daughter as well as he knew his 
own, peered intently at it as it was brought to him. 

“ All correct, I suppose, sir?” said the paying clerk. 

“ Oh, perfectly correct,” said Mr. Meserole. 

But the more he pondered over it the more unaccountable 
did it seem that Mrs. Aspendale, after having taken out let- 
ters of credit on the banker — Paris, Vienna and Naples — 
should have sent a check for such a large amount on the very 
day of her departure. 

“ It can do no harm to telegraph her, asking her. if she did 
authorize such a check,” he thought, “ for there is no sort of 
doubt but. that the signature is hers. ” 

And the telegram was sent accordingly, directed to “ Mrs. 
Aspendale, Hotel de ITmperatrice, Paris, France.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE TWO TELEGRAMS. 

Paris in August— a beautiful, enchanted city, with its 
streets all a glitter, its dwellers in g^la dress! And to Kath- 
erine Aspendale it seemed as if the Parisians had nothing to 
do but to enjoy life as its swift and sparkling current flowed 
along. Bands were playing* in the public gardens — ladies in 
exquisite toilets were sipping ices and drinking coflea out of 
egg-shell china cups — young lovers were whispering in the 
leafy wildernesses of the Champs Elysees— children played and 
shouted beside shining fountains, and the loveliest city in the 


claire's love-life. 


247 


world wore its holiday aspect upon that bright summer morn- 
ing when Katherine, lured by the vehement persuasions of 
Lady Lydia Grafton, went out to buy gloves, bonbons, books, 
and all the thousand trifles which people accumulate in Paris. 

She was but a woman after all, this poor Katherine of ours 
— and a very womanly woman — and in spite of the heavy load 
of secret trouble that weighed down her heart, she could 
scarcely help smiling at Lady Lydia's ecstasies at the blue 
satin “ cavalier boots," filled with sugar-plums, in the con- 
fectioners' windows, and the gilded bonbonnieres— at her be- 
wilderment between the rival charms of mauve and maize, 
green and rose color in the milliner’s show-case, and the ease 
with which the smooth-tongued Parisian functionary wound 
the young English lady, so to speak, around his finger, in the 
matter of ruches and bonnet- strings! And then there was the 
lovely jewelry in the Palais Koyal, and the new photographs 
and rare engravings in the windows of the book stores — and a 
personal interview with the great Worth himself, with whom 
Lady Lydia Grafton was rather a favorite — and so Katherine 
Aspendale was tired enough when, at the bewitching hour of 
dusk, she came into her own room, where the maid had just 
drawn the heavy damask curtains and lighted the wax candles, 
and was now engaged in laying out a black silk dress and its 
accompanying laces for her mistress's evening toilet. 

“ If you please, ma'am," said the maid, who was an elder- 
ly young person with white eyelashes and a demure presence, 
“ there's a telegram as has just come for you." 

“A telegram!" Katherine stopped with her bonnet half 
untied,' while the rosy color leaped to her face. Could it be 
possible that it was from her husband? The next moment 
she was pale and cold as ever. 

“ Give it to me, Martha," said she. 

One glance at the signature decided all doubt; and she read 
the following words: 

“ Herman Meserole, 19 Chantailing Street, London, to 

Mrs. Malcolm Aspendale, Hotel de l'Imperatrice, Paris : 

“ Did you on the 28th inst. sign a check for five thou- 
sand pounds, payable to the order of Eustace Aspendale?" 

“ Did I sign a check for five thousand pounds?" thought 
she, in incredulous surprise. “ Of course I did not. It is a 
stupid mistake. Martha "—to the maid— “ 1 want you to 
take a telegram down to the office for me at once." 

And she telegraphed back: 


$48 


claire’s love-life. 


“ Mrs. Malcolm Aspendale, Hotel de Tlmperatrice, Pari3, 
to Herman Meserole, 19 Chantalling Street, London: 

“ No. The check 1 signed was for five hundred pounds.” 


And when the old cashier received Mrs. Aspendale’s brief 
telegram, he scratched his head in dire dismay. 

“ Then there’s been foul play somewhere,” said he. And 
he went on tiptoe to the directors’ room to report his melan- 
choly tale. 

Half an hour afterward a respectable personage in plain 
black clothes stepped out of a hackney coach at the door of 
the little bijou of a house in Park Lane. 

“ Is Mr. Aspendale at home, my good man?” said he, 
courteously, to Joseph, the porter. 

“ No, sir, he ain’t,” Joseph answered, with a scared look. 
“ And what’s more he ain’t been home in twenty-four hours. 
P’r’aps you can tell us where he is.” 

“ Can I speak with Lady Huron?” questioned the genteel 
stranger. 

Claire was standing, deathly pale, in the middle of the ex- 
quisite little drawing-room, with purple rings under her eyes, 
and a shocked, startled look in her face. 

“ 1 beg your pardon, my lady,” said~ the personage in 
black; “ but p’r’aps you couldn’t tell me where 1 could get 
speech with Mr. Eustace Aspendale?” 

“ He is not at home,” said Claire, nervously intertwining 
her fingers. “ I do not know where he is.” 

“Don’t expect him home at any particular time, eh?” said 
the stranger, passing his hand around and around the nap of 
his hat. 

“No.” 

“Unfortunate,” said the man; “very. But, "under the 
peculiar circumstances, my lady, you won’t be surprised if I 
leave a man in charge here. I’ve a warrant for the arrest of 
Mr. Aspendale, and it is my business to make sure as he ain’t 
in hiding nowhere about the premises.” 

“Arrest /” cried Claire, in breathless dismay. “Arrest 
for what?” 

“ Banking house of Carew & Co., my lady,” said the man. 
“ Obtaining money under false pretenses.” 

He started to ring the bell as he spoke, appalled by the 
deathly pallor which had overspread Claire’s cheek, but she 
beckoned him to desist. 

“ I— I am not going to faint,” said she, “ But is this the 




Claire's love-life. 


249 


44 As true as taxes, my lady/’ said the man. “ It's about 
a check lor five thousand pounds, as has been cashed by our 
house, and as Mrs. Malcolm Aspendale telegraphs she never 
signed as such.” 

44 But there is some mistake,” said Claire. 44 There must 
be!” 

44 Most likely there is, my lady,” the man responded, dryly. 
44 It's likely to be an ork’ard mistake, though, for somebody.” 

Claire sunk upon a sofa, her hands pressed tightly over her 
Burning forehead, trying to think what it was best to do. 

She had never sought her couch all night — she could not 
think of sleeping *in the troubled fear and apprehension that 
surrounded her husband’s non-appearance. At day-break she 
had refreshed herself with a cup of strong coffee, which had 
given her temporary strength; and just as she had been about 
to send to Eustace’s club, to ascertain if by any possibility he 
had spent the night there, this emissary of the law had walked 
in — the frightful shadow of the coming events that fell darkly 
■across her path. 

44 1 will go to Malcolm,” she said to herself. 44 1 can not 
collect my own thoughts, but Malcolm will advise me what to 
do.” 

She rang the bell and ordered the carriage — the dashing 
open barouche, with its glistening panels and chocolate velvet 
cushions, which had been paid for out of poor Katherine’s 
money — and in fifteen minutes she was rolling smoothly along 
the streets, in her carriage-dress of violet silk, with a black 
lace shawl drawn carelessly across her shoulders, and a dotted 
lace veil wrapped tightly over her face. 

She drove to Lord Aspendale’s town house, and her wan 
face lighted up as the servant came back to the carriage door. 

44 Mr. Malcolm Aspeudale is in, my lady.” 

She hurried up the steps, crossed the wide hall, and entered 
the library, where Malcolm was standing before the empty 
grate, with a troubled expression upon his face. 

“ Malcolm,” cried she, without a word of introduction, 
44 do you know where Eustace is?” 

44 Do I know where Eustace is? No, certainly not,” Mal- 
colm answered, gravely. 44 Eustace and I are not such good 
friends that he should come and repeat all his goings and 
comings to me.” 

44 Then God have mercy upon me,” sobbed out Claire, 44 for 
there is some dark mystery under all this!” 

Malcolm gazed pityingly at her, as she sunk helplessly on a 
chair with averted face. 


250 


CLAIRE S LOVE-LIFE. 


f “ I know it all, Claire,” said he. “ A messenger from the 
banking house has just been here. A check has somehow 
been tampered with, and detectives are already on Eustace’s 
track!” 

Claire looked up with a wild, frightened face. 

“ Will they — hang him?” she faltered, clasping her hands 
tightly together. 

“ It is scarcely a capital offense,” said Malcolm, with a sad 
smile. “ But he will undoubtedly be imprisoned.” 

“ And that is why he has been away from me — even me!” 
interrupted Claire. “ Listen, Malcolm! If he was quite as- 
sured that there was no danger of prosecution he would come 
back to me, would he not?” 

“ I suppose so.” 

“ You are his brother, Malcolm —his only brother,” pleaded 
Claire. “ l T ou have influence with those people at the bank 
— you have money enough even to pay the amount in ques- 
tion, and never to feel it. Try to be merciful, as you your- 
self hope for Heaven’s mercy one day. Kecall the detectives 
— let the search be abandoned. Let me put a notice in the 
personal column of the ‘ Times,’ and he will return at once. 
Why should he not, if the danger be averted? And oh, Mal- 
colm, I loye him so!” 

Once more Malcolm smiled gravely. It was very evident 
that his sister-in-law was not a businesswoman; but, although 
he had no spark of sympathy for his brother, and secretly be- 
lieved that it would be better for his devious courses to be 
arrested at once by the sharp and sudden hand of the law, 
Claire’s tears softened him, and her words strengthened an 
idea which had already formed itself vaguely in his brain. 

“Do not weep so passionately, Claire,” said he. “The 
Carew banking house shall be no loser, depend upon it, 
through any one that bears the name of Aspendale.” 

“ And my husband?” she faltered. 

His brow gloomed over as he answered: 

“Your husband — although he has deserved every punish- 
ment with which the English law can visit him — will probably 
escape his rightful deserts. I will myself go to Mrs. Aspen- 
dale, and ask her, as a personal favor to myself, to suspend 
the prosecution. ” 

“ Oh, Malcolm, how can I ever thank you sufficiently? 
But — will Kate assent to what we ask? He* has tried her so 
dreadfully, you know, about money matters.” 

“ We c ai but make the attempt,” said Aspendale. “ It is 


claire’s love-life. 


251 


merely a business matter, and I may surely go to her as any 
other stranger would.” 

Lady Huron went home in a little more hopeful mood. 
Joseph opened the door for her. * 

“ My lady,” said he, “ that there man in black is playin’ 
solitary with a dirty pack of cards in my master’s library. 
And he won’t go, my lady, say what I will! He declares his 
orders are not to lose sight of the front door until Mr. As- 
pendale is — ” 

“ Is what?” flashed out Claire. 

“ Arrested, my lady, his word was!” said Joseph, cough- 
ing apologetically behind his hand. 

Claire bit her lips until the blood came. 

“ Let him stay, Joseph,” said she. “ It is a mere matter 
of legal form, and it will only be for a little while.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

I FT VAIN. 

And while Lady Huron was receiving her morning guests 
with feigned smiles and a nonchalance of manner which was 
too plainly assumed, and assuring them that her husband had 
been unexpectedly summoned from home on business, but 
would be certain to return on the morrow, Malcolm Aspendale 
was steaming across the English Channel, m route for the 
Hotel de l’lmperatrice, in Paris. 

He had caught eagerly at the excuse for seeing Katherine 
once more, for which purpose alone he had placed to the ac- 
count of the Carew banking house a sum amply sufficient to 
reimburse them for all loss which they might sustain through 
his brother. For this slender chance he had resolved to be- 
come the advocate of a man whom he thoroughly despised and 
disliked. 

This was his ostensible errand — to tell Katherine that he 
himself would assume the loss, and after haring done so, to 
entreat the heiress to forbear all further prosecution of his 
brother. But he knew well that, within his secret heart, he 
hoped that his wife’s cold nature had softened toward him a 
little at last. 

“ Who knows what miracles time may have worked in my 
behalf?” he asked himself, with a thrill of mingled fear and 
hope. 

But when at last, worn with fatigue and dusty with travel, 
he reached the Hotel de ITmperatrice, the landlord made a 
tragic gesture of despair at his eager question. 


253 


claire’s love-life. 


“ Madame la Comtesse, Miladi Grafton, and Madame As- 
i pendale, he regretted to be compelled to state, had left Paris 
the day before.” 

“ Left Paris!” Malcolm knew from the sudden pang of dis- 
appointment that pierced his heart, how little he had been 
prepared for any such rebuff as this. 

“ Can you tell me whither they have gone?” he eagerly 
questioned. 

“ But, yes,” the landlord answered, with bows and smiles. 
“ Miladi had engaged a courier at his, the landlord’s, recom- 
mendation, for miladi’s butler, although a most superior per- 
son, he could assure the gentleman, spoke no French. And 
Martin St. Pierre chanced to mention to him that Interlachen 
was the destination of the English party — Interlachen, in 
Switzerland, and — ” 

“ Yes.” Malcolm turned hurriedly away. 

“ Should they have the happiness of showing monsieur to a 
room?” 

No— monsieur would follow the English party to Inter- 
lachen. Could the landlord inform him how long a stay they 
had proposed to make among the mountains? The landlord 
was clesolee that he could not. Martin St. Pierre bad not 
mentioned that. 

And once more Malcolm Aspendale iound himself on his 
weary way, steaming across fair France, jolting over the 
Swiss valleys and across seemingly impassable ridges of mount- 
ain, in musty diligences and rattling conveyances without any 
recognized name — until, on the evening of the second day, he 
came in sight of the magnificent undulation of the Bernese 
Alps, with the rose and pearl crown of the J ungf rau rising 
out of them like a queen among her peers. 

The Hotel Anglaise, whose balconies overhung a foaming 
little river, was his natural stopping-place — a sort of magni- 
fied chalet, with picturesque gables jutting out here and 
there, and inclosed, as it 'were, with the superb Alpine 
heights. A reference to the register informed him that 
“Madame la Comtesse de Littleton” and her party were 
stopping there — and waiting only for a bath and a change of 
linen, Malcolm Aspendale sent up his card to the young lady 
who was traveling with “ Madame la Comtesse and Miladi 
Grafton.” 

Pending the return of the waiter, he walked up and down 
the narrow wooden balcony which opened from his room, 
staring idly at the white whirling tides below, dimly conscious 
of the serene presence of the Jungfrau beyond, outlined against 


Claire’s loye-life. 


253 


the purple twilight sky, with a diadem of golden stars about 
her head, the glisten of eternal snows upon her breast. Ordi- 
narily he could have reveled in the sublime beauty of the scene 
—now he was too deeply absorbed in his own cares and troubles 
to feel the soothing influence of nature.' 

The waiter came back . presently, shuffling along in a pair 
of list slippers. 

44 Madame Aspendale’s compliments, and she would see the 
gentleman,” he said. 

Malcolm followed, like one moving in a dream, to a pretty 
little reception-room with a matted floor, and one or two water- 
color sketches of the 44 Staub-bach ” and Lake Lucerne 
hanging on the walls. There were vases of wild flowers, 
ferns, and the blue gentian of the valley, and Katherine rose 
from her seat near the wide-open window as he entered. 

How beautiful she was— how regally lovely, with her grave 
blue eyes, the coils of golden braids wound around her small 
head, and the faint glow of color tinting her cheeks at his 
approach. Even her dress, of some soft deep-blue material, 
that fell in straight statuesque folds to her feet, and the glis- 
ten of dead gold ornaments at her throat, seemed a part of 
her own majestic loveliness. 

Malcolm had prepared his words beforehand, but they 
seemed to vanish out of his memory in the presence of his 
stately young wife. And in the calm glance with which she 
greeted him, lie read with sinking heart how unfounded had 
been all the illusive hopes which had beckoned him on like 
the glittering mirage of the desert. 

44 Katherine!” 

It was all that he could frame his lips to utter, but there 
were agonized hope and fear and unsyllabled entreaty all 
blended together in its tone. 

44 1 was rather surprised to receive your card,” said Kath- 
erine, composedly, although her heart beat like a caged bird. 
44 1 was not aware that you designed visiting Switzerland.” 

44 1 had no such design until a day or two ago,” said Mal- 
colm, recovering his self-poise with an effort. 44 1 came hither 
to see you.” 

44 Indeed?” 

44 To tell you that I have decided to place five thousand 
pounds to your account in the Carew banking house, in the 
place of the sum illegally abstracted therefrom by— my broth- 
er. To ask your forbearance in this unfortunate business— 
not for Eustace’s sake nor mine, but for that of the name of 
Aspendale^ and in mercy to poor Claire.” 


254 


claire’s love-life. 


“ You do well to ask no favors for yourself or your brother 
Eustace,” said the young wife, with somber blue lightnings 
in her eye, a red flush on her cheek. “ As for the name of 
Aspendale, believe me I can not soon forget that I, too, bear 
it, and that Claire was my friend once. Your errand, Mr. 
Aspendale, might perfectly well have been dispensed with. I 
have already decided to let this disgraceful matter drop, and 
have telegraphed directions to that effect to the banking 
house. I shall, of course, order my bankers to refund your 
five thousand pounds.” 

Malcolm bit his lip. “ I would not willingly have you a 
loser through the Aspendales,” said he. 

She looked mournfully at him. “I have lost more than 
that — through the Aspendales,” said she, with a .slight but 
very perceptible shiver, “ and still 1 live on!” 

He rose from the carved wooden chair on which he had 
seated himself, but still hesitated. 

“ Have you anything more to say to me?” she asked, 
quietly. 

“ Have you nothing to say to me, Katherine?” 

From his noble height he gazed down into her eyes, with 
passionate pleading intentness, but she made no motion to 
touch his outstretched hand. 

“ Nothing— Heaven help me, nothing!” she answered in a 
low voice. 

And so he left her. 

All that golden September evening, late into the midnight, 
the Interlachen peasants whispered to one another as they 
watched the tall young Englishman pacing up and down the 
Walnut Highway, with the steady red glow of his cigar going 
on before him, like a star. All the rosy dawn, when the Jung- 
frau lifted her radiant brow through folds of crimson mist, the 
early market-women, trudging in with baskets of freshly 
gathered fruit and dewy vegetables, marveled to see him stand- 
ing on the shores of the placid Aare, as if he looked for some 
pale Lurline to rise out from its blue limpid deeps and beckon 
him into an unseen world. 

And with the earliest morning diligence he left beautiful In- 
terlachen, with a heart as heavy as lead. 

Katherine Aspendale had let herself fall listlessly into a low 
chair, as the door closed behind her husband in name only. 

“Oh, Father in heaven!” her white lips uttered, faintly, 
“ what have I done, that all Thy billows have gone over me 
like this? How have 1 forfeited the blessed gift that crowns 
the poorest peasant bride?” 


CLAIKE’s LOVE-LIFE. 


255 ^ 


Lady Lydia Grafton came in at the expiration of half an 
hour. From her little balcony, she had seen Malcolm Aspen- 
dale leave the house, and wearying of waiting for her friend's 
tardy summons, she ventured to come without being called. 

The muslin curtains were fluttering in the wind, the fra- 
grant ferns exhaled a soft sweetness on the air, as Katherine 
sat by the table with her face drooping in her hands. 

“Kate!” 

There was no answer. Lady Lydia approached her friend, 
and softly drew away her hands. 

“ Speak to me, Kate! Oh, Kate, do not look so ghastly 
pale!” cried she. 

And with the words of sweet human sympathy, the hot 
tears rained down on Lady Lydia’s shoulder — the slight figure 
shook and quivered convulsively in her clasp. 

“ Oh, Lydia, 1 am so miserable! Oh, why, why can not I 
die!” she moaned out. 

“ Is it because of Malcolm?” whispered Lady Lydia. 

“ Oh, Heaven forgive me — yes!” sobbed Katherine, her 
face still hidden. 

“ Kate!” cried Lady Lydia, “ why do you not go back to 
him? You love him still!” 

“ I love him better than myself. Better than the life which 
throbs in my pulses; better than my hopes of heaven!” 

“ Then go back to him. Tell "him so. Ask him to take 
you to his heart.” 

But Katherine recoiled with a shudder. “ Go back to him! 
Go back to the man who — ” 

She checked herself, the cold dew standing on her brow, 
her very lips colorless. 

“ Katherine,” urged Lady Lydia, “ what does this mean? 
What is the clew to this strange mystery which is sapping 
your life away?” 

“ I can not tell you, Lydia. 1 can not tell any one!” cried 
out Katherine. 

Lady Lydia looked pityingly at her. _ 

“ Kate,” said she, “ you are dying by inches! This terri- 
ble suspense is killing you.” 

“ I wish it was all over,” said Katherine, wearily. “ I wish 
1 were dead now!” 


256 


claire’s love-life. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE CAMEO RING. 

“ Give me a drink of water, girl! Would you see me per- 
ish before your face?” 

It was a ridiculous little hostelry, half farm-house, half 
chalet, which had seemingly drifted into a shelving slope of 
the mountain on the very outskirts of Interlachen. Guides 
and curiosity-venders stopped there for their beer, and the 
coarse black bread that seemed the most delicious of fare to 
the healthy mountaineers; fortune-tellers caroused under its 
tumble-down roof. Petty gamblers and thimble-riggers 
lodged there, unquestioned and uninterfered with. Appar- 
ently the custom of the place was quite insufficient to supjDort 
even a fly — but it had sources of revenue which were not 
blazoned on its front. People came and went to and from the 
Three Golden Keys, mysteriously. The host, who burrowed 
in the cellar, and came out only occasionally, like a large 
black rat, knew all that transpired in Interlachen, as accu- 
rately as if he had been a newspaper reporter. And the pict- 
uresque female with the handkerchief twisted about her head 
and the red velvet jacket trimmed with tarnished gold braid, 
who dawdled behind the bar and generally seemed half asleep, 
was the quickest to hear, and the keenest to observe, of all 
the good dames of Interlachen. 

But the Three Golden Keys bore no creditable reputation, 
and the rural police kept their eyes steadfastly upon it. 

And in one of the low-ceiled, breathless rooms that were 
wedged in under the shadow of the eaves, lay Yictpr Kenrick, 
tossing upon the bed of fever. 

He had come thither ten or twelve days previously, with an 
ugly bullet hole in his left shoulder; come thither, weak and 
fainting, and accompanied by a dark-eyed girlish-looking 
young woman whom he called his wife, and a gold-haired 
child, who was known among the children of the house as 
“ le petit Jean.” A crooked, yellow-skinned old mountaineer, 
who had never taken out a diploma in any of the universities 
of medicine, but was reported in the neighborhood to have 
effected several cures that were little short of miraculous, by 
his dried herbs, syrups, and simples, had been summoned, 
and was treating the case, while the regular physicians at In- 
terlachen were studiously avoided. 


OLA I HE’S LOVE-LIFE. 


357 


“ It’s nothing — nothing at all!” Victor Kenrick had im- 
patiently protested. “ But it’s slow in healing up, and I've 
aa appointment at Marseilles, in October, that must be 
kept.” 

But the days passed on, and the wound did not heal. And 
upon this glorious morning — the same that dawned over Mal- 
colm Aspendale’s silent brooding figure by the shores of the 
limpid Aare — the fever seemed to be burning him up, and 
the slipshod servant-maid who brought him ice-cold spring 
water in a gourd shell quailed before the red angry light of 
his eyes. 

“ Where’s my wife?” said he. “ Does she mean to leave 
me here to die alone, like a rat in his hole?” 

Honest Bettine did not know; she felt furtively for her 
rosary, and faltered out that she believed that madame had 
gone to the village to sell some crochet lace to a grand En- 
glish miladi who was there. 

“ An English miladi, eh?” said Victor. “ Then ITl have 
a try, too. They keep wine from me as if it was poison. ITl 
* lay in a snug little stock of good old English sherry and Ma- 
deira, of my own, while there’s no one on guard. Look you 
here, girl' — is there a lad about the place who could run an 
errand for me?” 

Bettine’s dull eyes brightened at the distant prospect of gain. 
She had a brother who watered mules in the stable-yard — a 
willing lad, and quick on his feet — who would doubtless be 
glad to perform the bidding of monsieur. And presently a 
chubby-cheeked little boy, with wet hair plastered down over 
his forehead, and face polished with brown soap and crash 
toweling, was pushed into the presence of monsieur. 

Victor Kenrick raised himself feebly up on the sound arm 
and contemplated the little fellow. 

“ Looks like a fool,” said he, contemptuously. “ But that 
is no objection. “ See here, mon garpon , do you know the 
way to Interlachen?” 

The child nodded, with his finger in his mouth. 

“ Very well. You are to take this ring— this cameo ring, 
do you see?” 

Once again the child nodded, with a sidelong glance at the 
circle of gold set with a head of Medusa, beautifully carved in 
stone cameo. 

“ To the grand English miladi at the Hotel Anglaise. Tell 
her you are sent to sell it for any price she will give— and 
bring me the money. Do you hear? Do you understand?” 

Little Pierre, nodded a third time, slipped the gem into some 


258 


clatue’s love-life. 


mysterious hiding-hole in the folds of his ragged blouse, and 
sped away like an arrow from a bow. 

“ l'U be quits with Lotty yet,” muttered Victor, sinking 
back upon his pillows. .And, lying there, he heard the sound 
of little Johnnie's voice, shouting and laughing at play on the 
green with the inn- children, and it struck him strangely, that 
the little frail child should be so full of life and health, while 
he, the strong man, lay helplessly among his pillows. 

While Pierre, having reached the Hotel Anglaise, found 
himself rudely repulsed by the servants at the kitchen door. 

“ Imp of the Evil One!” cried M. Rene, the head cook, 
“ what wantest thou?” 

“ I want to see the English miladi,” piped up little Pierre. 

“ Thou wantest rather a rope’s end,” snarled Re'ne, who was 
never good-natured when he was composing his menu. 

And little Pierre, unable to effect an entrance, sauntered 
furtively about the gardens, watching for some one who should 
answer his idea of a grand English “ miladi,” or for some 
good-natured chambermaid whom he could cajole into ad- 
mitting him. 

As he stood idly flinging stones into the river, and whistling 
a popular air with flute-like trills and quavers, a tall, lovely 
lady came out upon one of the balconies — a woman with such 
wonderful golden hair as Pierre had never seen, except in a 
picture of the Virgin at church, and a dress that shone and 
shimmered all over, as iflt were woven out of rainbows. And 
in his secret mind Pierre decided at once that this must be the 
English miladi — perhaps the queen herself — who knew? lie 
stopped whistling and stared with all his might. 

“ Go on whistling, little boy,” said the lady, with a gracious 
smile; “ 1 like it.” 

And she flung him a penny. 

Pierre scrambled to get it, and then, tugging at his fore- 
lock, asked humbly: 

“ Are you the English miladi?” 

“ I am an English lady — yes.” 

“ Would the miladi please buy this V 9 

Supposing that what the little lad stood on tiptoe to reach 
up to her was one of the carved crosses, or gayly set pebbles 
of the mountain, Katherine Aspen dale put her slender, jew- 
eled hand through the coarse under-rail of the balcony, and 
untwisting the folds of tissue paper in which it was wrapped, 
saw an antique cameo ring. 

She uttered a low cry of superstitious terror, and grew deathly 
pale; for in this ornament thus strangely- forced upon her 


Claire's love-life. 


m 


notice, she instantly recognized a ring which had belonged to 
her dead mother — a ring which had been among the jewels 
purloined from Carew Court upon the night of her father's 
murder. 

“Little boy," she said, still with the same white face of 
terror, “ where did you get this ring?" 

“lam to sell it," said little Pierre, screwing up his baby 
face into an expression of ineffable cunning, “ for anything 
that the miladi chooses to give." 

“ Yes, I know; here is a silver crown for you, my child. I 
will buy it — but tell me where you got it." 

“.Monsieur Kenarique gave it to me," said Pierre, greedily 
eying the silver piece. “ Monsieur Kenarique at the Three 
Golden Keys, where my sister Bettine washes the dishes, and 
scrubs the floor, and takes care of the poultry. I am to sell 
it." 

“ Mon — sieur Kenarique ” slowly repeated Mrs. Aspendale. 
“ Is he there still?" 

Pierre nodded. “ He is sick," said he, “ and old Cristoforo 
makes bad-smelling drinks for him. Father Poulet says that 
he will die." 

“ Is it far?" asked Mrs. Aspendale. 

“ Not far," said Pierre. “ A mile, pernaps, up the mount- 
ain. Everybody knows where the Three Golden Keys is." 

“ Can you take me there?" asked Katherine. 

“ 1 shall have my brave silver sixpence all the same?" said 
Pierre, apprehensively. 

“ Of course." 

“ Come, then," said Pierre, with a nod; and Katherine, 
hurrying back into the room for her hat and parasol, left 
word with Mrs. Martha that she should be back before dinner- 
time. The Countess of Littleton al ways spent her mornings 
in bed, and Lady Lydia had gone for a long walk with a 
pretty young Austrian lady, who was also a guest at the Hotel 
Anglaise, so that Katherine had no one to consult upon the 
propriety of this strange fancy of hers. She only knew that 
she had found a clew to the mystery that overhung the fearful 
night of the murder, and she was determined to follow it up 
without loss of time. 

Little Pierre trotted ahead, taking, ever and anon, sur- 
reptitious peeps at the silver piece to which he had so unex- 
pectedly fallen heir. Katherine followed, having some diffi- 
culty in keeping up with the leaps and jumps of the child, who 
seemed in his motions to have patterned after the fleet-footed 
chamois of the mountain peaks that towered above. She 


200 


Claire's love-life. 


asked him one or two questions, but Pierre's sphere of knowl- 
edge upon general topics appeared to be rather limited, and 
she soon desisted. 

The hostess of the Three Golden Keys hurried out, her knit- 
ting-work in hand, with much courtesying, at the approach of 
the tall English lady in the shot-silk dress and the dove-lined 
parasol. Little Pierre ran up to her eagerly. 

“Madame Rosine," said he, “the Miladi Anglaise wishes 
to see Monsieur Kenarique!" 

Mine. Rosine was full of apologies as she ushered Mrs. As- 
pendale into the low-ceiled best apartment of the hostelry. 
“ If she had known that Monsieur Kenarique had such 
friends—" 

“ He is not my friend," gently interrupted Mrs. *Aspendale. 
“ He is quite a stranger to me. But I should like very much 
to see him." 

“ He is very sick," said Mme. Rosine, lowering her voice— 
for the ill-built chalet was a perfect sounding-board to all its 
inmates— “ with a pistol-shot wound in the shoulder, gan- 
grened. He will die, Padre Cristoforo says. But be pleased 
to walk this way, miladi. " 

And without a word of warning, Mme. Rosine ushered Miles 
Carew's daughter into the presence of Victor Kenrick, who 
was tossing restlessly among his pillows, counting each weary 
second and execrating the slow flight of time. 

“Miss Carew!" 

The words were uttered in a sort of shriek, as he recognized 
the beautiful girl whom he had so often seen when he had 
been hanging around the Court, that fatal summer when Lotty 
was in service there and “ Monsieur Borbonneau " had haunt- 
ed her like a shadow. 

She extended the cameo ring toward him. 

“This ring was stolen from my father's house two years 
ago," said she, “ upon the night on which he was foully mur- 
dered. You were one of the burglars." 

Victor Kenrick shrunk before her scathing glance. A 
month, nay, a week ago he would have stoutly denied the 
whole thing, and invented some plausible excuse for the pos- 
session of the unlucky trinket. But sickness and confinement 
and wasting fever had done their work upon him. He covered 
his face with his hot and wasted hands, uttering the pitiful 
whine of a whipped cur. 

“ I never had the money," he faltered. “ The others were 
villains. They escaped to Austria, and made up some im- 
probable tale that the diamonds were wrested from them by 


claire's love-life. 


261 


the police. But I knew that they were lying all the time. 
You'll not give me up to justice, my lady, seeing that I never 
was a penny the better for that night's work? You will have 
mercy on me for Lotty's sake! Why don't you speak up, 
girl? why don't you say a word for me?" 

4 4 For — whose sake?" 

At these words a slight figure rose up from the shadow of 
the clumsy wooden bedstead, where it had crouched hitherto 
unseen — Lotty Corey's figure. 

44 Yes, Miss Kate," said she, with a sort of sob, 44 he is my 
husband. I tried to stop the burglary, but I couldn't. But, 
for sweet Heaven's sake. Miss Kate, look upon his poor, pale 
face, and don't be hard upon him now /" 

44 And you knew all about it?" 

44 Yes." Her head drooped; the color seemed to have re- 
ceded entirely from her face. 

44 And never told me?" 

44 1 couldn’t. Miss Kate,'' she faltered. 44 He had stolen 
my child away; he swore he would murder it if 1 breathed a 
syllable to any one. Oh, pardon me, pardon me. Miss Kate, 
and remember how sorely 1 was tried!" 

44 And I'll tell you all about it, and the names of every one 
of the gang," pleaded Victor, 44 if you'll promise me not to 
let the law touch me. But there was one of them killed in a 
drunken brawl last spring, at a Vienna gambling-saloon— 
stabbed through the throat, and died in five minutes. That 
was Cesare Compobasso, the man who shot your father. " 

Katherine started back. Lotty interfered quickly. 

44 Victor," said she, “you are speaking falsely. It was 
Malcolm Aspendale who shot Mr. Carew." 

44 It was not , I tell you. Wasn't I there, looking in at the 
window? And didn't I see it all?" snarled Victor Kenrick. 

44 But 1 saw him, with my own eyes, looking on Mr. Carew's 
dead body," cried Lotty, passionately. 

44 So did I; he was there, fast enough. But he came in 
just the instant after Compobasso fired the pistol and fled. I 
am not likely to forget it, for the fellow nearly knocked me 
off the ladder in his flight. We didn't mean to do murder, 
but the old gentleman came unexpectedly upon us, and 
grappled -with Compobasso. He had the strength of Samp- 
son, in spite of his gray hairs, and Compobasso had to shoot 
him in self-preservation. Compobasso had scarcely escaped 
out of the window before Aspendale heard the pistol-shot and 
rushed in. " 

44 Oh, merciful Heaven!" cried Katherine, lifting her 


m . 


CLAIRE'S LOVE-LIFE. 


clasped hands toward the sky, “ and 1 have believed him to 
be a murderer all this time! I have treated him so cruelly! 
Lotty," she exclaimed, turning upon the woman who knelt 
at her side, with her face hidden in the folds of her dress, “ it 
was you that deceived me! What interest could you have had 
in telling me such a cruel lie? How did it profit you that his 
life should be blighted?" 

“ As God is my witness," solemnly protested Lotty, “ I be- 
lieved every word that 1 told you. What else could 1 think, 
when 1 saw Mr. Malcolm bending over the dead corpse?" 

“ She believed it, ma'am, sure enough," said Victor. 
“ And we let her believe it; we thought it safest.. But it was 
Compobasso did the deed. Give me a swallow of that stuff, 
Lotty — there's a strange sickening feeling comes over me, 
now and again, though the pain is mostly gone." 

So Katherine Aspendale went back to Interlachen with a 
strange triumphant happiness overflowing her heart — a happi- 
ness that struggled with the keenest pangs, the bitterest hu- 
miliation. 

Malcolm was innocent. That was the main thing. What 
cared she for the lost diamonds, the rouleaux of gold that she 
should never see again? Malcolm was innocent — and with 
that consideration she would have been blissfully content, even 
though she had been condemned to sell flowers for a liveli- 
hood, like the pretty peasant girls who came down from the 
mountains at eventide, with their baskets of fringed gentian 
and colorless buds. 

But when she went back to the Three Golden Keys, with 
Lady Lydia and one of the Interlachen magistrates, to take 
the deposition of the wretched gamester, old Cristoforo, the 
mountain Esculapius, came out on tiptoe to meet them. 

“ He is past all that, miladies and Monsieur le Magistrate," 
said he, when lie had been made to comprehend the errand on 
which they had come. “ Mortification set in, two hours ago, 
and although he suffers no pain, he lies utterly unconscious of 
all that is passing around him. We speak to him, but he does 
not hear; we wave the light before his eyes, but he does not 
even wink. ' ' 

“ But if he can be made to say Yes or No before wit- 
nesses," urged the magistrate. ‘‘It is most important 
that — " 

“ He will never speak again," said old Cristoforo, with the 
calm certainty of one who knows his assertions to be infallible. 

And he was right. Before the red blase of sunset bathed 
the glorious peak of the Jungfrau in blood, Victor Kenriek 


CLAIRE *S LOVE-LIFE. 203 

had rendered up his account to a higher tribunal than that of 
earth. 

And poor Lotty, clasping baby Johnnie to her widowed 
breast, reproached herseJf bitterly in that she could not re- 
press a feeling of relief. 

“ He is dead, Johnnie/ ’ she kept repeating in the uncom- 
prehending ears of the child. “Poor, poor papa is dead! 
And we are all alone in the world, Johnnie, you and I!” 

But still, in her secret heart, she was thankful that Victor 
had not died a felon’s death. And to Katherine Aspendale there 
was but one thought, one consciousness that overmastered all 
others — Malcolm was innocent. 


CHAPTER XL. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

Dinner was just over at Wild Aspens. 

Through the wide-open casements the soft September air 
floated in, while a beautiful crescent moon hung low in the 
purple sky, and the stars, which shone out here and there, 
made a strong contrast, in their far-off silver brightness, to 
the clusters of wax candles which glowed in ancient sconces of 
chased silver above the decorated dinner-table. Several guests 
had partaken of the meal, for Wild Aspens was generally filled 
with ardent sportsmen during the shooting season, and among 
Lord Aspendale’s guests were an eminent statesman, who had 
left the helm of government to other guidance for awhile, and 
come down to gain new health and vigor among the delicious 
breezes of the country, one or two literary celebrities who 
found the quiet of Wild Aspens more conducive to successful 
labor than the whirl of London life, and a distinguished mem- 
ber of the’bar whose name was a household word on both con- 
tinents. And Lord Aspendale, who was eminently hospitable 
by nature, and delighted in administering the courtesies of his 
house to a wide circle, was in his element at the head of the 
table. 

The many-colored and perfumed ices, and quivering pyra- 
mids of pink and golden jelly, stuck over with opening rose- 
buds, had been removed, and 'filigree silver baskets of fruit 
were being set on by noiseless waiters — great crimson peaches 
embedded in foreign ferns, a gigantic pine whose subtle fra- 
grance filled the air, and white and purple grapes from the 
Wild Aspens forcing-houses. The gold-beaded champagne 
was sparkling in the slender-necked glasses; old Birney, the 


264 


CLAIRE *S LOVE-LIFE 


butler, was going softly around with orange and lemon ices 
frozen in crystal chalices, and the claret was being taken out 
of silver ice-pails, when Malcolm rose and asked his uncle to 
excuse him for the present. 

“Going so soon, my boy?” said Lord Aspendale. “But 
you never did take kindly to the good old habit of sitting late 
over your wine!” 

“ i have some letters to write for to-night’s mail,” said 
Malcolm, apologetically, “ and, as you hav.e plenty of com- 
panionship, the evening — ” 

“You are absolved,” broke in Lord Aspendale, good-hu- 
moredly. But when Malcolm had left the room, he turned 
abruptly to Lord St. Simonds, the Secretary of Finance, who 
sat at his right hand. 

“ Do you think him changed,. St. Simonds?” said he. 

; The secretary nodded. 

“ I don’t pretend to be a reader of character,” said he, 
“ but 1 should say, if I was questioned, that that young man 
had something on his mind.” 

“ And so he has,” said Lord Aspendale, drinking his wine 
without even perceiving its flavor. “ My poor lad— he has. 
And the worst of it is that there seems to be no help for it. 
If my whole fortune could ransom him out of his troubles, I 
would cheerfully place it at his feet. ” 

“ Let me see,” said Lord St. Simonds, knitting his grizzled 
brows. “ I was in Norway last summer, but I think I heard 
something about a singular calamity which befell your nephew. 
He was engaged to be married, wasn’t he, and the young lady 
died on the wedding-day? I think I heard Lady St. Simonds 
and some of her friends talking it over.” 

“ Man, he was married!” cried Lord Aspendale, a little 
nettled that an event of such paramount importance to him 
should be so dimly comprehended in other quarters. “He 
was married, and the bride left him before the wedding was 
an hour old!” 

“ Left him!” echoed Lord St. Simonds. “ And what for?” 

“ There’s the rub,” said the old man. “ Nobody knew, 
and nobody ever has known!” 

“ What did she say herself — the bride, 1 mean?” 

“ She refused to give any reason. She was Miss Carew, the 
daughter of old Carew the banker, who was murdered in his 
own house by a gang of burglars two years ago.” 

“ I remember,” said Lord St. Simonds, “ I remember. 
And I’ve seen the girl at balls and parties. Very tall, isn’t 
she, with a profusion of pale yellow hair and very large 'blue 


CLAIRE S LOVE-LIFE. 


m 


eyes? But what on earth possessed her to behave in so very 
eccentric a fashion?’' 

“ That is what no one can conjecture. But it wears on 
Malcolm, for he loved her as truly as ever man loved woman. 
He has altered terribly since that day — and if anything should 
happen to him,” said Lord Aspendale, his voice quivering a 
little, “ I shall not scruple to say what I think — that she will 
have murdered him as surely as if she had thrust a knife into 
his heart.” 

“Why doesn’t he go after her, and compel her to fulfill her 
marriage vows?” bluntly demanded the secretary. “ A 
woman who will treat a man thus deserves no mercy!” 

“Ah, you don’t know Malcolm,” said Lord Aspendale, 
shaking his head. “ He would never accept a heart given by 
compulsion! And I don’t know that I would advise him to 
do so.” 

While the affairs of Wild Aspens’ heir were thus being can- 
vassed at the dinner-table, he himself was standing in the 
library, where Birney had lighted the softly shining German 
student-lamp, and opened wide the shutters so as to admit the 
fragrant air. At the further casement, beyond the golden 
luster of the lamp, the young moon laid a square of glimmer- 
ing silver over the deep-blue carpet, and a nightingale was 
warbling her sad, delicious refrain in the branches of the wal- 
nut-tree that brushed the marble columns of the portico with- 
• out. 

Malcolm Aspendale walked once or twice up and down the 
length of the spacious apartment, with bent brows and folded 
arihs. 

“ i can not endure it,” he thought, pausing where the 
moonlight glimmered whitest, and the nightingale’s “ jug, 
jug ” sounded saddest and most sweet by the open window. 
“ I have striven to take up my burden like a man, but it is 
greater than 1 can bear, and 1 will endeavor no longer. Eng- 
land is intolerable tame; my native land is too full of associa- 
tions and memories. If I were to go to China, or join Sin- 
clair’s expedition up the Nile, or even try and lose myself in 
the frozen regions of Greenland and the Pole, 1 might, per- 
haps, learn to forget; but how can I leave CJncle Laurence— 
the dear old man— who has but me? If I could only induce 
him to accompany me— and perhaps 1 might,” he thought, 
with a gleam of hope in his heart— “ if I decide not to strike 
any undiscovered route, which might intimidate his conserva- 
tive ideas, I think he might be persuaded to go up the Nile a 
little way, and — ” 


2 ( 36 


claire's loye-life. 


Just then Sampson, the under-footman, tapped at the door. 

“Mr. Malcolm !” said he, softly. 

Malcolm stepped out of the silver arabesques of luminous 
gloom at the end of the apartment into the circle of light 
flung by the student-lamp. 

“I am here, Sampson/’ said he; “did you come for the 
letters?” 

“No, sir,” the servant answered, with rather a bewildered 
look; “ it’s a lady, Mr. Malcolm — dressed in black, sir, and 
wearing a veil. And she says as her business is important, 
and she must see you immeddiately.” 

“ Are you sure it isn’t my uncle she means, Sampson?” 

“ Oh, yes, Mr. Malcolm. It was for Mr. Aspendale as she 
asked for, plain enough. ” 

“Then ask her to walk in.” For it never occurred to 
Malcolm Aspendale but that the mysterious stranger was some 
enterprising lady of the neighborhood come to ask permission 
to take a party of friends over the picture-gallery or conserva- 
tory, or to demand his signature, or that of his uncle, to some 
charitable subscription or forthcoming festivity. He stood 
waiting her presence, but the door upon which his eyes were 
fixed never opened. 

“ She has left her message with one of the servants, and 
gone, I suppose,” he thought; “ that is a relief, at all events!” 

But as he stood there, the peculiar and undefinable sensa- 
tion which so often telegraphs to our consciousness the pres- 
ence of another identity, even when invisible to the senses, 
crept over him with a magnetic thrill and shudder— and, 
turning quickly, hs saw a tall slender figure standing in "the 
wide-open French casement, holding back the silken draperies 
with one hand, with an aureole of golden hair faintly visible 
in the light of the setting moon, and large, startled eyes, look- 
ing intently at him. 

For an instant his heart seemed absolutely to stop beating 
—and then all its pulses leaped at once in glad bewilderment. 

“ Kate!” he cried out, scarcely venturing to move, lest at 
a word or a motion the spell should be broken, and the silver- 
shadowed apparition should melt again into moonlight and 
vapor. 

But it was no apparition — it was a living and breathing 
woman who hurried toward him, with golden tresses stream- 
ing down her back, and hands held eagerly out. 

“ Yes, Malcolm, it is I. Oh, Malcolm, my husband, I have 
come back to you! I have come to sue for pardon — on mv 
bended knees!” 


CLAIRE'S LOVE-LIFE. 2.07 

But he caught her in his arms before sho could fall at his 
feet. 

“Not there, my Kate!" he whispered, “oh; not there! 
Close to my heart, dearest— with your cheek against my own, 
your breath upon my lips!" 

“But tell me," she pleaded, wildly, “ that you have for- 
given me!" 

“ A thousand times over, Kate!" 

“ And you will take me back to your love?" she faltered. 

“ My own one, you have been enshrined there all these 
weeks!" he answered. “ You would have been until the day 
of my death!" 

“ Oh, Malcolm," cried she, “lam not worthy of such love 
as that. 1 have doubted you, with cruel, stinging doubts; 1 
have lost faith in your truth and honor; I have let myself be 
tossed to and fro on the waves of a horrible uncertainty that 
was worse than death! But, my love, my love, it is all past 
and gone now, and you have told me that 1 am forgiven!" 

And then iii whispers she told him of* what she had heard 
from Lotty Kenrick's lips, in the first hour of her wedded life 
— of the dark chain of circumstantial evidence which seemed 
to complete their import, and of the terrible conflict of 
agonized doubt which she had undergone since then. 

“ Can you ever pardon me for believing such a hideous 
tale?” she asked. “ But, indeed, indeed I have been pun- 
ished a thousand times over every day of my wretched life, 
since I fled to Claire Huron's house!" 

“ Go on," said he, quietly. “ Tell me what it was that un- 
deceived you at last." 

And she told him of the scene in the ruined chalet at the 
foot of the Jungfrau — of Victor Kenrick’s dying confession. 

“If it had not been for the cameo ring," said she, “ the 
awful burden never would have been lifted from my heart! 
Oh, my husband, why did I not trust you, in spite of all? 
Why did I allow myself to doubt you, even though an angel 
from heaven had bidden me do so?" 

“ Kate," said Malcolm, gently, “ we will forget all this 
dark day of trial. It is enough that you love and trust me 
now.” 

“ And I have loved you!" she burst out. “ Oh, when my 
doubts were darkest — when 1 tried to hate and scorn you with 
the most intensity, 1 knew and felt that I loved you! If I had 
but believed in my own instincts! If I had but trusted to the 
dictates of my heart!" 


m 


claire's loye-life. 


He took her cold hand tenderly in his— a broad gold band 
was shining on the fourth finger of the left hand. 

“ What is this, Kate?” he asked. 

She looked shyly up into his face. 

“ My wedding-ring, Malcolm.” 

“ But you took off your wedding-ring and threw it from 
you, that day at Lady Huron's house.” 

“I know 1 did!” admitted Katherine, coloring deeply at 
the recollection of her own mad folly. “ But 1 came back 
into the room after you were gone, and searched until I found 
it. 1 could not bear to part with it, Malcolm, although my 
pride would not allow me to wear it in your presence. 1 put 
a slender gold -chain through it, and wore it secretly next my 
heart. ” 

“ My own dearest!” 

“ And that day, at Interlachen, 1 put it on again. It shall 
never leave my finger again, Malcolm, until you yourself take 
it from my dead corpse.” 

It was late in the balmy September evening when Lord As- 
pendale bustled into the room. 

“ Malcolm,” cried he, stopping on the threshold to accus- 
tom his eyes to the dim half light of the room, “ 3 T oumust 
certainly have finished those bothering letters of yours by this 
time. And — eh! — what! who is that sitting beside you?” 

Malcolm rose, and led Katherine gently forward. 

“ It is my wife,” said he. ' 

“ Your — wife!” vaguely repeated the old man. 

“Yes, Uncle Laurence,” confessed Katherine, “ his wife! 
His penitent wife, who has implored his pardon for the past 
— his true and faithful wife, who will never leave him more 
until death does us part!” 

And in a voice which she alone could hear, her young hus- 
band whispered this one fervent word: 

“Amen!” 


CHAPTEB XLI. 
in yain. 

“ Lady Huron!” said Lord Aspendale, curtly. “No, 1 
don't want to see her. Why should 1 see her?” 

“ I don't know, I am sure, my lord,” said Birney, to whom 
this question was apparently addressed. 

“ Tell her I'm particularly engaged,” said Lord Aspen- 
dale, fidgeting among his newspapers and pamphlets. 


claire’s love-life. 269 

“ I did, my lord,” said Birney. “ For 1 knows as you never 
like to be disturbed with your after-breakfast cigar.” 

“ And why the deuce didn’t she go away?” 

“ She said she wouldn’t detain you but a few minutes, my 
lord,” answered Birney. 

“ Confound her!” said Lord Aspendale. 

“ Certainly, my lord,” said Birney. 

“ I don’t see why I can’t be let alone,” added Lord Aspen- 
dale. “ If 1 were to build a stone tower ninety feet high and 
get into it, it’s my belief that half a dozen women would be 
looking over the top of it at the end of twenty- four hours.” 

“ Yes, my lord,” said Birney, coughing deferentially be- 
hind his hand. “ Shall I show her in, my lord?” 

“Yes, and be hanged to you!” thundered out the baron, 
dropping his “ Times ” and laying his cigar on the bronze 
and gold receiver, with a groan of despair. 

And Claire, Lady Huron, came in, superbly dressed in vio- 
let silk, with a priceless lace shawl draped gracefully over it, 
her violet kid boots and gloves of Parisian fit, and her lovely 
red-gold hair woven into a sort of coronal under a little hat 
of pansies. She was beautiful as Cleopatra’s self — and yet 
Lord Aspendale recoiled a little as she swept gracefully up to 
him. 

“ Uncle Laurence!” said she, piteously, “ won’t you speak 
to me?” 

“ Good-morning,” said Lord Aspendale. “ Pray take a 
seat! I’m a little busy this morning, and — ” 

“You are not glad to see me,” said Claire, tragically 
clasping the beautiful hands upon which the violet kid gloves 
fitted so perfectly. 

“ Well, no,” said Lord Aspendale. “ Since you put it so 
directly, I can not say that I am. ” 

Claire sunk gracefully on the carpet at the old man’s feet 
— an attitude that could not have been bettered at any theater 
in London. 

“ Uncle Laurence,” faltered she, between her sobs, “ be 
merciful to me! Be kind to one who is alone and friendless 
in the world but for you.” 

“ My good girl,” said Lord Aspendale, in dismay, “ pray 
get up. Don’t be theatrical. If you’ve anything to say to 
me, say it out in plain, unvarnished English. I shall leave 
the room if you persist in making a scene.” 

Claire rose unwillingly to her feet, but she still stood with 
clasped hands and lovely cheeks wet with tears. 

“ Uncle Laurence, won’t you listen to me?” said she, 


270 


CLAlItE*S LOVE-LIEE. 


“ Certainly— if you will go on, and be quick about it!** 
answered the old gentleman. 

“ Eustace has left me. ,J 

“ A good riddance, 1 should say,” brusquely broke in Lord 
Aspendale. 

“ And he will never come back again,” wept poor Claire, 
whose tears were genuine enough at last. 

“Eh?” questioned Lord Aspendale. “ How do you know 
that?” 

“ He has written me a note. Uncle Laurence; oh, such a 
cruel, cold note! He has gone to America. He has left no 
address, and says it will be utterly useless for us to attempt to 
-discover his whereabouts! Oh, Uncle Laurence, do tell me 
what I shall do!” 

Lord Aspendale fixed his eyeglasses astride of his aquiline 
old nose, and looked calmly at the beautiful deserted. 

“ Really, Lady Huron,” said lie, “ I don't see why you 
should come to me to ask that question.” 

“ Because I have no one else to consult,” said Claire, a lit- 
tle taken aback at this unexpected reception of her confidence. 
“ Because you will have to take care of me now.” 

“ And what makes you arrive at that conclusion?” persisted 
the old gentleman. 

“ You are my natural guardian and protector,” said Claire. 
“ You are my husband's uncle.” 

“ I beg your pardon, Lady Huron, for* contradicting you 
there,” briskly interposed Lord Aspendale. 

“ Not his uncle, of course, except by courtesy,” Claire cor- 
rected herself. “ But his nearest relative. And as you have 
adopted his brother Malcolm, and made him your heir — ” 

“ Had I not a right to do as I pleased with my own?” 

“ Oh, of course, only Eustace has often said you ought, in 
common justice, to divide evenly with him,” stammered 
Claire, “ or make him an allowance, which — ” 

“ I am much obliged to Eustace for assuming a direction 
of my affairs,” said Lord Aspendale. “ But I do not recog- 
nize his right to do so. The cases are by no means parallel. ” 

“ Eustace has an equal right to your bounty with his broth- 
er,” flashed out Claire, who was beginning to lose her 
equanimity. “ And the world will expect you to provide for 
Eustace's wife!” 

“Ho you think so?” said Lord Aspendale, with a curious 
ironical smile playing about his lips. 

“ Every one must think so!” asserted Claire, her cheeks 
reddened with excitement, her eyes flashing indignantly. 


Claire’s love-life. £71 

“ Exactly,” said Lord Aspendale, rubbing the palms of his 
white, slender hands together. 44 But there is one little cir- 
cumstance of which you are unaware — a circumstance which 
materially alters the aspect of affairs. Eustace Aspendale has 
not an equal right to what you are pleased to term 4 my 
bounty ’ with Malcolm. Malcolm Aspendale is the only son 
of my dearest friend and cousin, John Aspendale. Your hus- 
band, Lady Huron, is no relation whatever to me.” 

“ They are brothers!” gasped Lady Huron. 

4 4 Pardon me — they are not brothers. They are no rela- 
tions. Do you care to hear a little piece of family history? 
Then 1 will relate it to you. My cousin, John Aspendale, 
was a widower, with a child a year old, when he met one Mrs. 
Eustace, a beautiful widow some years older than himself, 
also with a son, of three or four years of age. He fell under 
an infatuation, as men sometimes will, and married this 
beautiful Mrs. Eustace. In all things he treated this child 
of her former marriage exactly as he did his own, even going 
so far as to change the lad’s name from Alfred Eustace to 
Alfred Eustace Aspendale. And when at last the hand of 
Death was upon him, and I stood beside his dying bed, he en- 
treated me to make no difference between the lads — never to 
let them know that they were not brothers by law, as well as 
in name. And, so help me God, I never would, if Eustace 
had been anything but the scheming gamester and villain that 
he has proved himself. Blood will tell — and Eustace’s father 
died in a gambling-saloon, shot to death at the moment in 
which his infamy was detected. And 1 consider myself ab- 
solved, through Eustace’s abominable conduct, from any 
pledge I may have given to John Aspendale upon the subject. 
Now you know all.” 

44 Uncle Laurence—” gasped Claire, who had turned death- 
ly pale, and leaned against the table for support. 

“ I beg your pardon,” interfered Lord Aspendale, with 
chilling hauteur; 44 but I must request you not to use that ap- 
pellation in addressing me; I am no relative either of yours or 
your husband; and perhaps the farce has been kept up long 
enough!” 

44 But what shall I do:” wailed poor Claire. 44 Whither 
shall I go?” 

44 Perhaps if you have relatives of your own you had better 
consult them on the subject,” said Lord Aspendale, taking 
up his newspaper. 

44 Will you not help one who is so helpless?” pleaded Claire, 
with one last desperate effort. 


claike’s love-life. 

“ 1 must beg leave to decline,” said Lord Aspendale, posi- 
tively. 

And she went out from his presence with drooping head 
and cheeks that had turned ashy and colorless. 

The railway fly in which she had driven over from Stoke 
Aspen, with such high hopes of securing a permanent home 
at Wild Aspens, was still waiting; she entered it once again. 

“ Where shall 1 drive to, my lady?” inquired the boy, whose 
business it was to urge on the jaded old horse. 

“ Back to Stoke Aspen,” said Claire. 

For she had conceived the valiant idea of going to Huron 
Hall and billeting herself by a vigorous cotip d’etat upon the 
dowager, who still resided there in solitary state, undisturbed 
by the heirs of entail. 

She had not thought it necessary to allude, in Baron Aspen- 
dale’s presence, to the unsuccessful appeal she had made to 
Mrs. Malcolm A spend ale. Katherine was deeply sorry for 
her, but she had learned to distrust her — and as for Malcolm, 
he had neither pity nor charity for the handsome swindler who 
had so long worn an assumed name, and his wife. 

Poor Claire! she was beginning at last to comprehend how 
hard is the way of the transgressor. 

When the crumpled note which conveyed to her Eustace’s 
final determination had been handed into the elegant little 
boudoir in Park Lane, which was already in possession of the 
bailiffs, Claire’s grief had been unbounded. She had sacri- 
ficed her whole life to Eustace, and he had flung her off with 
a careless heartlessness of which she. had not deemed him 
capable. He had no more use for the Purple Pansy, with her 
beauty and her fascinations — and consequently he had left her 
behind him in his transcontinental flight, as he left his soiled • 
gloves and old-fashioned garments. 

Poor Claire! 

But when she had wept her poor heart out, with the maid 
looking coldly on, and the sound of the auctioneer’s people in 
the adjoining room, cataloguing things for the impending 
sale, she sat up, and pushed the tangled hair out of her 
swollen eyes and tried to think. She would go to Kate. She 
would appeal to Lord Aspendale. She would teach those in- 
solent tradespeople, who dared to clamor so persistently for 
their money, that she had yet powerful and influential friends 
left, who would be quick to avenge any slight or insolence that 
might be offered to her. Apparently none of the expensive 
articles of furniture and costly little knickknacks which had 
made her house so attractive had been paid for. None of the 


CLAIRE’S LOYE-LIFE. 




housekeeping bills had been settled. Even her jewels were 
reclaimed, with a not very complimentary message, by the 
unfortunate merchant who had supplied them, and the very 
servants noisily demanded payment on account. 

“ To leave me to face all this alone!” thought Claire, with 
a sharp pain at her heart. “Not to care whether I go out 
begging, or come to the poor-house! And I would have given 
my very life for him!” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE CURTAIN FALLS. 

She had gone to Katherine, and been repulsed. She had 
made her pitiful appeal to Malcolm Aspendale, and learned 
from his lips several very unpleasant truths about her hus- 
band. She had posed and wept before Lord Aspendale, and 
had been politely turned out-of-doors! What was left to her 
now? 

“ I will go to Huron Hall,” she thought. “ Surely the 
Dowager Lady Huron can not be entirely flinty-hearted to the 
widow of one she once loved.” 

It was nearly dusk when she was shown into the great 
chilly drawing-room of Huron Hall, which smelled as if the 
windows were not opened oftener than once a week. She per- 
ceived at a glance that the work of decoration, which had been 
brought to a standstill by Sir Caleb Huron’s death, had never 
been resumed. Half-finished scrolls and arabesques of water- 
color, on half of the ceiling, contrasted oddly* with the gray 
antiquity of the other half; panels of gold and dove-color 
terminated abruptly in an unfinished sweep of “ dead color- 
ing,” while gilded cornices had been put up on one side and 
omitted on the other, producing a harlequin sort of effect. 
The new furniture which had been ordered down from Lon- 
don to suit the taste of Sir Caleb’s young bride, had never 
been unpacked, but still occupied the store-rooms in the left 
wing, while the claw-legged chairs and dark polished wood of 
the ancient sofas and tables glistened in the half light that 
came through the somber brown draperies of the windows, 
like wan ghosts of a past generation. 

Claire shuddered; she almost wished that she had not come 
hither, in the first chill of these renewed associations. She 
half expected to see the door that led into Sir Caleb’s study 
open, and the pallid little baronet come in, with the old near- 
sighted stare in his eyes, the old pleading smile upon his lips. 


2? 4 


claire’s love-life. 


“ At least/’ she thought, involuntarily clasping her hands, 
“ he loved me!” 

She started at the sound of a footstep behind her, and turned 
to behold the dowager herself, grim and unbending as ever. 

“Iam surprised. Lady Huron Aspendale, to see you here,” 
said she, without even asking her daughter-in-law to be seated. 

Claire held out her appealing hand. 

“ Won’t you shake hands with me. Lady Huron?” said 
she. 

The dowager shuddered and recoiled. 

“ Will 1 touch the hand that murdered my boy?” said she. 
“ Never!” 

“ Lady Huron, is this kind? Is this just?” cried out 
Claire. 

“It’s the truth!” uttered the old lady, regarding Claire 
as some elderly female islander of old might hare regarded the 
beautiful sirens who neared her shores with luring smiles 
and fatal loveliness. 

“ I am alone and friendless,” urged Claire. “ I have come 
to you in my extremity. Your son loved me once. Lady 
Huron, and — ” 

“ Yes, he loved you — God knows he loved you!” burst in 
the dowager. “ And how did you repay his love? Had it not 
been for you and your lovers, and you accursed coquetries, he 
would have been alive at this moment. And you come to me 
for aid! Alone and friendless, are you£” with an eager, sav- 
age light in her eyes. “ 1 wish you were starving, that I might 
refuse you a crust of bread! I wish you were perishing with 
thirst, that I "might withhold from you a cup of cold water! 
Leave this house, Claire Aspendale, and never again presume 
to insult the memory of my dead son by presenting yourself 
under this roof!” 

She held open the door like a stern-denouncing prophetess, 
and poor Claire passed out, silent and pale, scarcely daring to 
breathe until she was beyond the stiff, old-fashioned grounds 
of which she had once been the mistress. 

“As ye have sown, so shall ye reap!” And this was the 
second rebuff that Lady Huron had received. 

She remained at a hotel at Richmond all night, for it was 
too late for her to travel alone, and Julie, her maid, had left 
her that morning. But with the next day she returned to 
London.. 

The little bijou of a house in Park Lane was closed against 
her. The auction sale had taken place — the luxurious rooms 
were dismantled, and an old woman, with her head tied up in 


claire’s loye-liee. 275 

a pocket-handkerchief, and an insuperable difficulty in hear- 
ing, thrust her frost-bitten nose out of the area window, and 
replied, steadfastly, in answer to Lady Huron’s inquiries: 

“ Phelps & Dominick, agents, 45 Payson Row, High Hol- 
born. Notes and letters to be left next door. House to be 
seen between ten and two . 99 

Never in all her life had Claire felt so desolate and deserted 
as she did at this moment. 

“ Am I homeless, friendless?” she asked herself. “ Am 1 
absolutely without shelter in this great, cruel wilderness of 
London?” 

And then, with sickly heart, she gave the cabman still an- 
other address: 

“ Mrs. Ruby, No. 19 Densly Place.” 

And away rattled the cab in an eastward direction. How 
Claire’s heart sunk as the stately streets changed into nar- 
rower and less aristocratic localities, and, in their turn, were 
replaced by rows of brilliant shops. And leaning back with 
closed eyes, she tried to realize that her butterfly life was over 
— that she was going back to chrysalishood once more, a liv- 
ing paradox. 

“ 1 wish I were dead!” she kept vainly repeating to her- 
self. “ Oh, I wish 1 were dead and buried, like poor Sir 
Caleb, with all my troubles and trials at an end!” 

The primitive inhabitants of Densly Place stared and 
stretched their necks as the tall, lovely woman, in glistening 
violet silk, with limpid jewels in her ears, and a bonnet that 
looked like a spray of spring flowers fastened to her shining 
auburn hair, alighted from the cab and ascended the steps of 
No. 19. 

“ Look, Jemimar, look!” whispered a one-legged girl with 
a baby in her arms to another, who was administering instant 
justice to a youngster who had been smearing his counte- 
nance in the manufacture of mud pies. “ She’s a-goin’ to 
Ruby’s! P’r’aps she’s a new lodger*! Our folks don’t never 
have any such luck.” 

Claire looked around her, sick at heart, at the various den- 
tists’ and dress-makers’ signs, the streaming gutters, the mobs 
of ragged children in the streets, and the untidy heads stretched 
out of various windows. How different from the shady seclu- 
sion of Wild Aspens and Carew Court— how unlike the aristo- 
cratic quiet that reigned in Park Lane! 

“ Claire! you don’t never tell me that it’s you V 9 

Mrs. Ruby had been peeping over the stairs, as the slovenly 
servant-maid admitted the visitor, and now came shuffling 


276 


Claire’s love-life. 


down, after her old slipshod fashion. The hall was dark 
and dingy, and full of the old smell of scorching .soup and 
stale fried onions. Claire could hear the children quarreling 
stealthily at the head of the stairs, while they did their best 
to overhear what was going on below; and the everlasting 
bell was jingling shrilly down-stairs, as if it had never left off 
ringing all the two years that she had been gone. 

“ Yes, mother,” said she, wearily, “it is I; take me to 
some place where I can sit down, please. I am very tired and 
faint. ” 

Mrs. Ruby opened the door of the little back dining-room, 
where the table-cloth was like a white sea, dotted with an 
archipelago of grease spots, and the stifling gas-light burned 
like a sickly yellow eye. 

“ Drat that Mary Ann!” said Mrs. Ruby; “ she ain't tidied 
up here yet. But here's a chair, Claire,” dusting one with 
her apron. “ Do sit down, and tell us the news. They tell 
me as you're my lady now, and 1 think it cohldn't have been 
no more than decent to invite your own folks to your wed- 
ding. But tastes differ. I suppose you're come to spend the 
day,” with a curious glance at the lustrous folds of the violet 
silk and the diamonds in Claire's ears. 

“ Mother,” said Claire, looking piteously up into Mrs. 
Ruby's face, “ I've come to stay always. I have no other 
home than this. ” 

“ My goodness gracious!” said Mrs. Ruby, shrilly. “You 
don't never mean that my lord has run away?” 

Claire winced. 

“ Sir Caleb Huron is dead,” said she. 

“ And left you nothing?” 

“ Nothing, mother.” She said not a word as to the man 
who had cruelly deserted her— she could not bring her lips to 
frame his name. " v 

“ Then I'd have the law of him,” said Mrs. Ruby, vi- 
ciously. 

“You don't understand these matters, mother,” said 
Claire, hopelessly. “ I've got a little money left, and my 
watch and chain, and some jewels. They will pay my way 
for awhile; and when they are gone — ” 

“ Well, I'll tell you what, Claire,” said Mrs. Ruby in a tone 
which was meant to be ingratiatory and patronizing in the 
highest degree, “ there ain't no denying that it sounds well 
to have a married daughter in the house as is my lady, even 
if her husband has not done the right thing by her. And it'll 
save the expense of a day governess for the children; and I've 


CLAIRE ? S LOVE-LIFE. 


277 


a deal of fine needle-work to do; so, if you’ve a mind to stay 
here and make yourself generally useful, me and Ruby won’t 
charge for your room. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?” 

And so the shadows of Deusly Place closed darkly above 
the Purple Pansy’s life. She had lived and she had lowed, 
like Schiller’s proud heroine, and at one-and-twenty it seemed 
to her that all was over. And so it was, as far as the brilliant 
existence for which alone she cared was concerned; to be the 
daily governess to her noisy and vulgar half-sisters, the un- 
paid drudge of the lodging-house, to return to degrading 
economies and petty grindings was actually nothing more than 
a living death. 

She had lived and she had loved— and it was all over now. 

Ten years afterward, if any one had taken lodgings at the 
house of Mrs. Ruby, No. 19 JDensly Place, they would have 
caught occasional glimpses of a handsome, untidy woman, 
with a knot of tangled red-gold hair pinned carelessly up at 
the back of her head, a shawl dragged across her shoulders, 
and a trailing faded gown of some cheap and flimsy material, 
generally in sad need of the good offices of needle and thread 
— a woman who seems to have no particular vocation about 
the house, but who is called upon by everybody for every- 
thing. She is always threatening that she will ‘ 4 look for a 
situation,” but she never does it. Somehow the elasticity and 
vitality seem to have gone out of her nature, and she will 
endure any amount of domestic persecution sooner than to 
face the world again. Her only amusement appears to be in 
reading the tattered novels smuggled in by the servant-maid, 
from the nearest circulating library, and eating surreptitious 
chocolate creams and Jordan almonds. Mrs. Ruby trains the 
servants to call her “ my lady,” and often tells her lodgers 
how wealthy they would all be, if her daughter had only had 
her rights. But she bullies poor spiritless Claire terribly, 
and the children torment her out of her life, and the only per- 
son about the house who dares to be kind to her in secret, and 
slip an occasional half crown or shilling into her hand, is poor 
little Mr. Ruby, who is still toiling on at the Golden Eagle 
Insurance Company, at a salary of eighty pounds per an- 
num. 

Lady Littleton is still bracing herself up with homeopathic 
remedies, and studying the theories of the immortal Hahne- 
mann. Lady Lydia is married to a pale, intellectual young 
artist who idealizes her and whom she adores with all her 
frank, honest heart. 

Malcolm Aspendale and his wife have fallen heir, in the 


#78 clairf/s love-life. 

natural course of events, to Wild Aspens and its wealth. The 
merry voices of little children sound along the marble halls, 
and beside the tinkling fountains, and Katherine grows more 
serenely beautiful as the years creep on. Carew Court is sold 
to a rich retired mercer from Liverpool, who keeps John Mac- 
kenzie on as head gardener, and Phillis’s tongue does not grow 
more honey-sweet with the advance of years and infirmities. 
But Lotty lives with her aunt, and Johnnie is growing wise 
on the subject of pomology and horticulture under the tuition 
of the old Scotchman. Lotty seldom smiles, but she is hap- 
py in her quiet fashion, and even sour-tempered Aunt Phillis 
declares that she should not know how to get along without 
Lotty and the blithe little lad. 

Of Eustace Aspendale and his whereabouts nothing has ever 
been definitely known or ascertained. Various reports of his 
death have been circulated, but none of them has ever been 
confirmed; and there is a black-browed handsome English 
billiard-marker, who lounges from place to place upon the 
line of fashionable continental travel, now here, now there, 
and nowhere long at a time. And people who have known 
Eustace Aspendale in the old days shrewdly conjecture that 
he and this Mr. Silvius Mountchester are one and the same. 
But, however that may be, he has the good sense and decency 
to keep out of England, and consequently his freedom of mo- 
tion is in no way interfered with. 

And so, although Claire, our heroine, still drags on a weary 
and purposeless existence, the play in which her part was 
prima donna is over. The lights are out, the rows of glitter- 
ing benches deserted, and so the great green curtain falls in 
somber folds over her Love-Life, 


THE EKD. 






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NOW READY: 

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2— DASHAWAY CHARLEY. Illustrated. By Halsey Page. Price 10 cents. 

3— EAGLE EYES, THE SCOUT. By Capt. L; C. Carleton. Price 10 cents. 

4— THE TRAPPER’S RETREAT. By Capt. L. C. Carleton. Price 10 cents. 

5— DASHAWAY CHARLEY'S SECOND TERM AT RANLEIGH. Illus- 

trated. By Halsey Page. Price 10 cents. 

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By Halsey Page. Price 10 cents. 

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Carleton. Price 10 cents. 

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Sftad&folgeitbe 2Berfe ftnb in ber ©eutjcfjen SiBrarl) etftfjtenert 


1 Der Kaiser, von Prof. G. Ebers. 20 

2 Die Somosierra, von R. Wald- 


miiller 10 

3 Das Geheimniss der alten Mam- 

sell, Roman von E. Marlitt. .. 10 

4 Qnisisana, von Fr. Spielhagen. 10 

5 Gartenlauben-Bliitheu, von E. 

Werner .*. .. 20 

6 Die Hand der Nemesis, von E. 

A. Konig 20 

7 Amtmann’s Magd, von E. Mar- 

litt 20 

8 Vineta, von E. Werner 20 

9 Auf der Riimmingsburg, von M. 

Widdern 10 

10 Das Haus Hillel, von Max Ring 20 

11 Gliickauf! von E. Werner 10 

12 Goldelse, von E. Marlitt 20 

13 Vater und Sohn, von F. Lewald 10 

14 Die Wtirger von Paris, von C. 

Vacano 20 

15 Der Diamantschleifer, von Ro- 

sentlial-Bonin 10 

P.6 Ingo und Ingraban, von Gustav 
Frey tag 20 

17 Eine Frage, von Georg Ebers.. 10 

18 Im Paradiese, von Paul Heyse. 20 

19 In beiden Hemispharen, von 

Sutro-Schiicking 10 

20 Gelebt und gelitten, von H. 

Wachenhusen 20 

21 Die Eichhofs, von M. von Rei- 

chenbach 10 

22 Kinder der Welt, von P. Heyse. 


22 Kinder der Welt, von P. Heyse. 

Zweite Halfte.. *. 20 

23 Barfvissele, von B. Auerbach. . . 10 

24 Das Nest der Zaunkonige, von 

G. Frey tag 20 

25 Friihlingsboten, von E. Werner 10 

26 Zelle No. 7, von Pierre Zacone. 20 

27 Die junge Frau, von H. Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

28 Buchenheim, von Th. von Varn- 

biiler 10 

29 Auf der Bahn des Verbrechens, 

von E. A. Konig 20 

30 Brigitta, von Berth. Auerbach . 10 

31 Im Schillingshof, von E. Marlitt 20 

32 Gesprengte Fesseln, von E. Wer- 

ner 10 

33 Der Heiduck, von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

34 Die Sturmhexe, von Grafin M. 

Keyserling 10 

35 Das Kind Bajazzo’s, von E. A. 

Konig 20 


36 Die Briider vom deutschen 

Hause, von Gustav Frevtag. . 20 

37 Der Wilddieb, von F. Gerst&cker 10 

38 Die Verlobte, von Rob. Wald- 


miiller . 20 

39 Der Doppelganger, von L. 
Schilcking ». Vi 


40 Die weisse Frau von Greifen- 

stein, von E. Fels 20 

41 Hans und Grete, von Fr. Spiel- 

hageu 10 

42 Mein Onkel Don Juan, von H. 

Hopfen 20 

43 Markus Konig, von Gustav 

Freytag 20 

44 Die schonen Amerikanerinnen, 

von Fr. Spielhagen 10 

45 Das grosse Loos, von A. Konig 20 

46 Zur Ehre Gottes, von Sacher, 

und Ultimo, von F. Spielhagen 10 

47 Die Geschwister, von Gustav 

Freytag 20 

48 Bischof und Konig, von Mariam 

Tenger, und Der Piratenko- 
nig, von M. Jokai 10 

49 Reichsgrafin Gisela, von Mai’litt 20 

50 Bewegte Zeiten, von Leon Alex- 

androwitsch 10 

51 Um Ehre und Leben, von E. A. 

Konig 20 

52 Aus einer kleinen Stadt, von 

Gustav Freytag 20 

53 Hildegard, von Ernst von Wal- 

dow 10 

54 Dame Orange, von Hans Wa- 

chenhusen 20 

55 Johannisnacht, von M. Schmidt 10 

56 Angela, von Fr. Spielhagen 20 

57 Falsche Wege, von J. von Brun- 

Barnovv 10 

58 Versunkene Welten, von W. 

Jensen 20 

59 Die Wohnungssuclier, von A. 

von Winterfeld 10 

60 Eine Million, von E. A. KSnig.. 20 

61 Das Skelet, von F. Spielhagen, 

und Das Frolenhaus, von Gu- 
stav zu Putlitz 10 

68'Soll und Ilaben, von G. Freytag. 
Erste Halfte 20 

62 Soli und Haben, von G. Freytag. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

63 Schloss Griinwald, von Char- 

lotte Fielt 10 

64 Zwei Kreuzherren, von Lucian 

Herbert 20 

65 Die Erlebnisse einer Schutzlo- 

sen, von K. Sutro-Schficking. 10 

66 Das Haideprinzesschen, von E. 

Marlitt. < 20 

67 Die Geyer-Wally, von Wilh. von 

Hillern io 

68 Ideal isten, von A. Reinow 20 

69 Am Altar, von E. Werner 10 

70 Der Konig der Luft, von A. von 

Winterfeld 20 

71 Moschko von Parma, von Karl 

E. Franzos 30 

72 Schuld und Siihne, von Ewald 

A. Konig 20 

73 In Reih’ und Glied, von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Erste H&lfte. ... 20 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY, 


78 In Reih’ und Glied, von Fr. 
Spielhagen. Zweite Halfte. . 20 

74 Geheimuisse einer kleinen Stadt, 

von A. von Winterfeld 10 

75 Das Landhaus am Rhein, von 

B. Auerbach. Erste Halfte.. 20 

75 Das Landhaus am Rhein, von 

B. Auerbach. Zweite Halfte. 20 

76 Clara Vere, von Friedrich Spiel- 


hagen 10 

77 Die Frau Biirgermeisterin, fon 

G. Ebers 20 

78 Aus eigener Kraft, von Wilh. v. 

Hillern 20 

79 Ein Kampf urn’s Reclit, von K. 

Franzos 20 

80 Priuzessin Schnee, von Marie 

Widdern 10 


81 Die zweite Frau, von E. Marlitt 20 

82 Benvenuto, von Fanny Lewald. 10 

83 Pessimisten, von F. von Stengel 20 

84 Die Hofdame der Erzherzogin, 

von F. von Witzleben-Wen- 


delstein 10 

85 Ein Vierteljahrhundert, von B. 

Young 20 

86 Thiiringer Erzahlungen, von E. 

Marlitt 10 

87 Der Erbe von Mortella, von A. 

Dom 20 

88 Vom armen egyptischen Mann, 

von Hans Wachenhusen 10 

89 Der goldene Schatz aus dem 

dreissigjahrigen Krieg, von E. 

A. Kouig 20 

90 Das Friiulein von St. Ama _ 

ranthe, von R. von Gottschall 10 

91 Der Fiirst von Montenegro, von 

A. v. Winterfeld 20 

92 Um ein Herz, von E. Falk 10 

93 Uarda, von Georg Ebers 20 

94 In der zwolften Stunde. von 

Fried. Spielhagen, und Ebbe 
und Fluth, von M. Widdern.. 10 

95 Die von Hohenstein, von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Erste Halfte. .. 20 

95 Die von Hohenstein, von Fr. 

Spielhagen. Zweite Halfte.. 20 

96 Deutsch und Slavisch, von Lu- 

cian Herbert 10 

97 Im Hause des Commerzien- 

Raths, von Marlitt 20 

98 Helene, von H. Wachenhusen, 

und Die Prinzessin von Portu- 
gal, von A. Meissner 10 

99 Aspasia, von Robert Hammer- 

ling 20 

100 Ekkehard, v. Victor v. Schefifel. 20 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom, von F. 

Dahn. Erste Halfte 20 

101 Ein Kampf um Rom, von F. 

Dahn. Zweite Halfte 20 

102 Spinoza, von Berth. Auerbach. 20 

103 Von der Erde zum Mond, von 

J. Verne 10 

104 Der Todesgruss der Legionen, 

von G. Samarow ; . 20 

105 Reise um den Mond, von Julius 

Verne . 10 


106 Fiirst und Musiker, von Max 

Ring 20 

107 Nena Sahib, von J. Retcliffe. 

Erster Band 20 

101 Nena Sahib, von J. Retcliffe. 
Zweiter Band 20 

107 Nena Sahib, von J. Retcliffe. 

DritterBand 20 

108 Reise nach dem Mittelpunkte 

der Erde, von J. Verne 10 

109 Die silberne Hochzeit, von S. 

Kohn..-, 10 

110 Das Spukehaus, von A. von 

Winterfeld, 20 

111 Die Erben des Wahnsinns. von 

T. Marx 10 

112 Der Ulan, von Joh. van Dewall 10 

113 Um hohen Preis. von E. Werner 20 

114 Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 

ten, von B. Auerbach. Erste 
Halfte 20 

114 Schwarzwalder Dorfgeschich- 

ten, von B. Auerbach. Zweite 
Halfte 20 

115 Reise um die Erde, von Julius 

Verne 10 

116 Casars Ende, von S. J. R., 


117 Auf Capri, von Carl Detlef . . .. 10 

118 Severn, von E. Hartner 20 

119 Ein Arzt der Seele, von Wilh. 

von Hillern 20 

120 Die Livergnas, von Hermann 

Will fried 10 

121 Zwanzigtausend Meilen unterm 

Meer, von Jul. Verne 20 

122 Mutter und Sohn, von A. Godin 10 

123 Das Haus des Fabrikanten, von 

G. Samarow 20 

124 Bruderflicht und Liebe, von L. 

Schucking 10 

125 Die Romerfahrt der Epigonen, 

von G. Samarow. Erste 
Halfte 20 

125 Die Romerfahrt der Epigonen, 

von G. Samarow. Zweite 
Halfte 20 

126 Porkeles und Porkelessa, von J. 

Scherr 10 

127 Ein Friedensstorer, von Victor 

Bluthgen, und Der heimliche 
Gast, von R. Byr 20 

128 Schone Frauen, von R. Edmund 

Hahn 10 

129 Bakchen und Thyrsostrager, 

von A. Niemann 20 

130 Getrennt, Roman von E. Polko 10 

131 Alte Ketten, Roman von L. 

Schucking 20 

132 Ueber die Wolken, von Wilhelm 

Jensen 10 

133 Das Gold des Orion, von H. 

Rosenthal-Bonin 10 

134 Um den Halbmond, von Gr. 

Samarow. Erste Halfte 20 

134 Um den Halbmond, von Gr. 

Samarow. Zweite Halfte 20 

135 Troubadour - Novellen, von P. 

Heyse 10 


t)IE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY. 


I 

w* 


l{ft> Der Schweden-Schatz, von H. 
Wachenlmsen 

137 Die Bettlerin vom Pont des 

Arts u nd Das Bild des Kaisers, 
von Wilh. Hauff 

138 Modelle, Hist. Roman, von A. 

von Winterfeld 

139 Der Krieg um die Haube, von 

Stefanie Keyser 

140 Numa Roumestan, von Al- 

phonse Daudet 

141 Sp&tsommer. Novelle von O. 

von Sydow, und Engelid, No- 
velle von Balduin Mollhausen 

142 Bartolomaus, von Brusehaver, 

und Musma Cussalin, Novel- 
len von L. Ziemssien 

143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter, Ko- 

mischer Roman von A. von 
Winterfeld. Erste Halfte .... 

143 Ein gemeuchelter Dichter, Ko- 

mischer Roman von A. von 
Winterfeld. Zweite Halfte. . . 

144 Ein Wort, Neuer Roman von G. 

Ebers 

145 Novellen, von Paul Heyse 

146 Adam Homo in Versen, von 

Paludau-Miiller 

147 Ihr einziger Bruder, von W. 

Heimburg 

148 Ophelia, Roman von H. von 

Laukenau 

149 Nemesis, von Helene von Hiilsen 

150 Felicitas, Hiscor. Roman von F. 

Dahn 

151 Die Claudier, Roman von Ernst 

Eckstein 

152 Eine Verlorene, von Leopold 

Kompert 

153 Luginsland, Roman von Otto 

Roquette 

154 Iin Banne der Musen, von W. 

Heimburg. 

155 Die Schvvescer, v. L. Schiicking 

156 DieColonie, von Fi-iedrich Ger- 

stacker 

157 Deutsche Liebe, Roman von M. 

Muller 

158 Die Rose von Delhi, von Fels. 

Erste Halfte 

158 Die Rose von Delhi, von Fels. 

Zweite Halfte 

159 Debora. Roman von W. Muller. 

160 Eine Mutter, von Friedrich Ger- 

stacker 

161 Friedhofsblume, von W. von 

Hillern 

162 Nach der ersten Liebe, von K. 

Frenzel 

163 Gebannt und erlost, von E. Wer- 

ner 

164 Uhlenhans, Roman von Fried. 

Spielhagen 

165 Klytia, Roman von G. Taylor. . . 

166 Mayo, Erzahlung von P. Lindau 

167 Die Herrin von Ibichstein, von 

F. Henkel 

168 Die Saxoborussen, von Gr. Sa- 

marow. Erste Halfte .. 


168 Die Saxoborussen, von Gr. Sa- 

marow. Zweite H&lfte..... .. 26 

169 Serapis, Roman von G. Ebers.. 20 

170 Ein Gottesurtheil, Roman von 

E. Werner 10 

171 Die Kreuzfahrer, Roman von 

Felix Dahn 20 

172 Der Erbe von Weidenhof, von 

F. Pelzeln 20 

173 Die Reise nach dem Schicksal, 

von K. Franzos 40 

174 Villa Schonow, Roman von W. 

Raabe 40 

175 Das Vermachtniss, von Ernst 

Eckstein. Erste Halfte 20 

175 Das Vermachtniss, von Ernst 

Eckstein. Zweite Halfte 20 

176 Herr und Frau Bewer, von P. 

Lindau 10 

177 Die Nihilisten, von Joh. Scherr. 70 

178 Die Frau mit den Karfunkel- 

steinen, von E. Marlitt 20 

179 Jetta, von George Taylor 20 

180 Die Stieftochter, von J. Smith. 20 

181 An der Heilquelle, von Fried. 

Spielhagen 

182 Was der Todtenkopf erzahlt, 

von M. Jokai 5*0 

183 Der Zigeunerbaron, von M. 

Jokai M 

184 Himmlische u. irdische Liebe, 

von Paul Heyse 20 

185 Ehre, Roman von O. Schubin . . 2Q 

186 Violanta, Roman von E. Eck- 

stein 20 

187 Nemi, Erzahlung von H. Wa- 

chenhusen 40 

188 Strandgut, von Joh. von Dewall. 

Erste Halfte 20 

188 Strandgut, von Joh. von Dewall. 

Zweite Halfte 2tf 

189 Homo sum, von Georg Ebers.. 2J 

190 Eine Aegyptische Konigstoch- 

ter, von Georg Ebers. Erste 

Halfte 20 

19u Eine Aegyptische Konigstoch- 
ter, von Georg Ebers. Zweite ?0 


191 Sanct Michael, von E. Werner. 

Erste Halfte 20 

191 Sanct Michael, von E. Werner. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

192 Die Nilbraut. von Georg Ebers. 

Erste Halfte 20 

192 Die Nilbraut, von Georg Ebers. 

Zweite Halfte 20 

193 Die Andere, von W. Heimburg. 20 

194 Ein armes Madchen, von W. 

Heimburg 20 

195 Der Roman der Stiftsdame, von 

Paul Heyse 20 

196 Kloster Wendhusen, von W. 

Heimburg 21 

197 Das Vermachtniss Kains, von 

Sacher-Masoch. Erste Halfte 20 
197 Das Vermachtniss Kains, von 
Sacher-Masoch. Zweite H&lfte 20 


198 Frau Venus, von Karl Frenzel. , 20 


20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

10 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

10 

20 

10 

20 

10 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 


DIE DEUTSCHE LIBRARY. 


199 Eine Viertelstunde Yater, vou 

F. W. Hacklander 10 

200 Heimatklang, vou E. Werner.. 10 

201 Herzenskrisen, von \V. Heim- 

burg 20 

202 Die Sch western, von G. Ebers.. 20 

203 Der Egoist, von E. Werner 10 

204 Salvatore, von E. Eckstein 20 

205 Lumpenmiillers Lieschen, von 

W. Heimburg 20 

206 Das einsame Haus, von Adolf 

Streckfus 20 

207 Die verlorene Handschrift, von 

.G. Freytag. Erste Halfte. . . 20 

207 Die verlorene Handschrift, von 

G. Freytag. Zweite Halfte. , 20 

208 Das Euleuhaus, von E. Marlitt 20 

209 Des Herzens Golgatha, vou H. 

Waclienhusen 20 

210_Aus dem Leben meiner alten 

Freundin, von W. Heimburg 20 
211 Die Gred, von G. Ebers. Erste 

Halfte , 20 

211 Die Gred, Yon G. Ebers. Zweite 

Halfte 20 

212 Trudchens Heirath, von Wilh. 

Heimburg 20 

213 Asbein, von Ossip Sehubin 20 

214 Die Alpenfee, von E. Werner. . 20 

215 Nero, von E. Eckstein. Erste 

Halfte 20 

215 Nero, von E. Eckstein. Zweite 

Halfte 20 

216 Zwei Seelen, von R. Lindau 20 

217 Manover- u. Kriegsbilder, von 

Job. von Dewall 10 

218 Lore von Tollen, von W. Heim- 

burg 20 

219 Spitzen, von P. Lindau 20 

220 Der Referenda!*, von E. Eck- 

stein 10 

221 Das Geiger-Evchen.von A.Dom 20 

222 Die Gotterburg, von M. Jokai 20 


223 Der Krouprinz und die deutsche 

Kaiserkrone, von G. Freytag 10 

224 Nicht im Gdeise, von Ida Boy - 

Ed 20 

225 Camilla, von E. Eckstein 20 

226 Josua, eine Erzablung aus bib- 

lisclier Zeit, von G. Ebers 20 

227 Am Belt, von Gregor Samarow 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werue. Erster Band 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Zweiter Band 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Dritter Band 20 

228 Henrik Ibsen’s Gesammelte 

Werke. Yierter Band 20 

229 In geistiger Irre, von H. Kohler 20 

230 Flammenzeichen, v. E. Werner 20 

231 Der Seelsorger, von V. Valentin 10 

232 Der President, vonK.E.Franzos 20 

233 Erlachhof, Roman von Ossib 

Sehubin 20 

234 Ein Mann, von H. Heiberg 20 

235 Nachzehn Jahren, von M. Jokai 20 

236 Um die Ehre, von Moritz von 

Reiclienbach 20 

237 Eine Hof-Intrigue, von C. H. 

von Dedenroth 10 

238 Grafin Ruth, von Emile Erhard 20 

239 Eine unbedeutende Frau, v. W. 

Heimburg 20 

240 Boris Lensky, von O. Sehubin 20 

241 Die Erbtante, Roman von Jo- 

hannes van Dewall 20 

242 Gloria vietis!, Roman von Os- 

sip Sehubin 20 

243 Bravo rechtsl, Roman von Os- 

sip Sehubin 20 

244 Merlin, von Paul Heyse. Erste 

Iiaifte 20 

244 Merlin, von Paul Ileyse. Zweite 

Halfte 20 


Ein schoner ausgearbeiteter Catalog, enthaltend eine alphabetische List, 
xoird von George Munro fiir 10 cents an alle Adressen versendet. 

„Die Deutsche Library “ ist bei alien Zeitungshandlern zu haben, Oder 
wire! gegen 12 Cents fiir einfache Nummern, Oder 25 Cents fiir Doppelnum- 
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Address GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing’ House, 

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Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, 


By LEWIS CAltBOIX, 

Author of “Through the Looking-Glass.” 

With Forty-two Beautiful Illustrations by John Tenniel. 

Handsomely Bound in Cloth. 12mo. Pkice 50 Cents. 


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ILLUSTRATED BY JOHN TENNIEL. 

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OUR SOUTHERN BRETHREN. 

By Henry J»l. Field, !>.!). 

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BY MARY STUART SMITH. 

WITH HANDSOME LITHOGRAPHED COVER. 

PRICE 25 CENTS. 

A thoroughly practical book on housekeeping by an experienced and 
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GOOD FORM: 

A BOOK OF EVERY DAY ETIQUETTE. 

BY MRS. ARMSTRONG. 

Price 25 Cents. 

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Compiled and Edited by Mrs. MARY E. BRYAN. 

PRICE 25 CENTS. 


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PRICE 25 CENTS. 


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receipt of the price. Address 

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The Munro Corset is constructed on a graceful model for improving the 
figure, the shape being permanently retained by the added yoke and cross- 
oones at hip. In the Munro Corset art and utility are combiued. one being the 
support of the other, the design being such as to retain perfect beauty of 
shape and contour, while the materials present such a combination of firmness 
and pliability that the figure is sustained in exquisite grace and elegance. 



'I'ii h* -'I 'U" 1’ ' ■'tGr i' in i*le lo <hi! r tnuff' <ne materi Is used and the fin' 

ish ar.i guar m e-'d to "e « the very best, quality. Ladies who understand the 
art -.f dressing well v\ill be charmed with tnis new and beautiful Corset, and 
will appreciate not ab>ne the appearance but the ease and comfort in wearing 
and the perfect freedom io movement, without danger of breaking whalebone 
or steel. The front, being laced, makes it adjustable. 

Measure slips sent on nppiicnrinn. 


PRICES : 


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Best French Coutil, white or Gray - - &12 OO 

Best French Coutil, black - - - - . ^13 00 

i White or Black Satin - ofl 00 

( Best Silk, in Colors 2 q!00 

In all cases money must accompany order, and may lie sent by Registered 
Letter or Post-office Order. Address GEORGE MUNRO 

P. O. Box 8751. 17 to 27 Vandewater St., N. Y. 










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